Two Worlds in Which We Dwell
by Marla Fair
Summary: Spock and Uhura's shuttlecraft is drawn through a time vortex to 18th century Kentucky. With Spock injured, Uhura must seek help in a world hostile to women of her color. At the same time a new leader emerges among the Shawnee to lead an uprising against Boonesborough, threatening Daniel Boone and his family. But is Rain of Stars what he seems?
1. Chapter 1

TWO WORLDS IN WHICH WE DWELL

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Prologue

Kentucky 1777

 _We have two lives about us, Two worlds in which we dwell, Within us and without us_

 _Richard Henry Stoddard_

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Above the shaman the thunderbirds winged their way across a sky blackened by storm clouds, chasing the tail of the celestial panther that had passed overhead no more than an hour before. The Shawnee warrior-turned-medicine man looked up, allowing the flash of the great birds' eyes to play across his deeply tanned face. He opened his arms wide and raised his hands to welcome them, unafraid. The panther had been the first sign – to let him know that his chosen path was right. Then, _they_ had come to promise his visions were true as well. The great birds had heard his fevered words and honored his prayers with their presence. Unemake nodded once. Then, once again. As had been foretold, _this_ night would be the beginning. Tonight's actions would herald the end of the white man and of his encroachment upon the Indians' land. The Great Spirit, _Kokumthena,_ who sent the Thunderbirds, was not deaf to the Shawnee's cry. Her people's pleas had been heard and one had been sent to lead them to victory. The white tail emblazoned on the storm gray clouds above was his assurance that the words of their new war chief, Rain of Stars, were true. The shaman stared at the white trail a moment longer. Then his eyes followed it to where the sacred animal had fallen to the earth. It had moved off into the forest, dragging its tail behind it, leaving scorched sign in its wake. The oak, the ash, the fir tree smoked where they lay blasted and broken by the great panther of the sky.

Broken as their enemies were destined to be.

Unemake lowered his hands and began to walk even as a cold, hard rain began to fall. He passed through smoldering embers, seeking the shadowed shapes of the ones who had so blessed him in the gray mist that rose above the sodden forest floor. Unemake knew they were there and that they were watching. He would not fail them. He had prayed for a sign and been given _two._ What more assurance could he have? The time was now. The white man Boone, and the settlement he had planted like a blight upon the Shawnee land, would wither like the trees before him. They would die.

The shaman's eyes returned to the heavens. As a boy he had spent time in the white man's lodges. He recalled a story from the book called the Bible. A fierce warrior known as Lucifer had defied the Great Spirit. He had been cast to earth in just such a way.

Then, the battle had been joined.

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Chapter One

A slender, supple shape bent over another form that lay supine on the ground. In her hand was a small silver cylinder. As she depressed a button on it, a soft hum accompanied by a rainbow of light, echoed through the wilderness of trees surrounding them. A lightning flash revealed it to be a woman, clad in a short crimson dress cut with the formality of a uniform. The woman was as attractive as she was determined. Her skin was the rich brown of the rain-soaked earth beneath her feet. Her eyes, black as the clouds above. She had removed the instrument from the body of the third member of their party – one whose life had been severed along with his head; both cut off in a tangle of metal and winking, dying lights – and ran it now over the quiescent form beneath her. She did not breathe until it beeped several times, though the report of the instrumentation was far too weak for her liking. She adjusted the settings and tried again, but with no better luck.

A wry smile twisted her burgundy lips. _Luck._ What would the one she scanned think of that? Or of her irrational wish that the crash had not happened? _Or_ of her hope that he would simply spring up from the ground, whole and well?

Damned little.

The handsome woman permitted herself a sigh in spite of regulations as she knelt by his side. Laying a hand on his chest, she stared into his face. It was perfectly composed as always, though she thought she detected a hint of pain around his closed eyes and pale, green tinged lips. Anxious, she glanced at the readings again. Though she wasn't trained to understand the myriad of medical symbols playing across the screen, her rudimentary knowledge told her things did _not_ look good. Blood pressure nearly non-existent. Temperature rising above norm. Pulse too slow. The woman glanced at the grass beside her regulation issued boots. It was wet, not with dew, but with her companion's blood.

It was an irony that _both_ were green.

Rising to her feet, Lt. Nyota Uhura, chief communications officer of the Starship Enterprise, raised her brown velvet eyes to the sky. The trail from the Shuttlecraft _Columbus's_ rapid and haphazard descent was dissipating, as were the last remnants of the anomaly that had pulled them off course without warning. In minutes, it would be as if both had never been. As if there had been no rent in space, no vast all encompassing swirl of light and night that had reached out and taken hold of their small vessel and drawn them to –

Wherever they were.

Uhura had left the remnants of the shuttlecraft – and the deceased third member of their party – behind in the hills. The forces exerted by the anomaly had battered the small vessel as it entered the atmosphere and then released them to fall like a stone. Lt. Deevers had been at the helm. Once they knew they were in trouble, the Enterprise's first officer, Mr. Spock, had taken over. The Vulcan, with his superior abilities, had struggled valiantly to land it in some sort of order. At the last minute the side of a mountain crag had risen up like an ax to crack the port wall. Uhura had watched in horror as the Vulcan science officer had been sucked out and disappeared into the ocean of verdant leaves below. It had taken her fifty minutes to find him.

He had been bleeding every one of them.

Due to Dr. McCoy's diligence the _Columbus_ had been equipped not only with a standard medical kit, but with one that contained both synthesized copper-based blood and drugs adapted to Vulcan physiology. Or, to a _half_ -Vulcan's. Mr. Spock's physiology – while of interest to nearly every woman on board the Enterprise and most of the Federation's medical community – was an unknown to almost everyone _but_ Leonard McCoy. As she and the ship's first officer prepared to depart for the galactic symposium on the efficacy of music in interplanetary negotiations being held on Earth, Dr. McCoy had warned her – with a lazy smile and a lifted eyebrow that indicated he was only _partially_ kidding – that Spock drew trouble like a magnet, and that she had best be prepared to play Florence Nightingale to her superior. Uhura had laughed and chalked the remark up to the fierce but friendly rivalry between the two men.

Now, she knew better.

The conference had been scheduled to take place in her home country, in the United States of Africa. After it was over, it had been her intent to spend a few days with her extended family. She had invited Spock and Lt. Deevers to join her. Spock had surprised her by accepting, saying he looked forward to exploring the roots of the music he so admired in her. The Enterprise had dropped them off space-side of the moon, and then turned away to make a milk run to one of the nearby solar systems. She had known no fear as the great ship warped away.

After all, she was home – what on _Earth_ could happen?

A flash of lightning illuminated the Bantu woman's beautiful if troubled features. The answering thunder moved the earth beneath her feet. As rain began to fall once again, pelting her and her wounded superior, the Enterprise's first officer moaned and stirred. Uhura quickly knelt. Even though she knew the Vulcan disdained contact, she placed a hand on his shoulder to stay him.

"You're hurt, Mr. Spock. Badly. You must remain still."

The Vulcan blinked rain from his eyes, which had opened on the green world around them with a mixture of barely suppressed pain and intense curiosity. "This is not…Africa," he whispered between gritted teeth.

She couldn't hide a smile. One could always count on Mr. Spock to state the obvious. "No, sir."

"Where are we?"

"Unknown," she answered. Though the mediscanner from the kit Deevers' had carried was still functioning, most of the other equipment had been damaged in the crash. And somewhere along the way that extra kit, the one so lovingly provided by Dr. McCoy for this man heclaimed he didn't even _like_ , had been lost. She guessed it had fallen out of the ship with Spock. "We lost the tricorder along with everything else – _if_ it could have told us anything."

The Vulcan attempted to rise, failed, and then looked up to her. "Lieutenant, you will assist me to my feet."

"Assist you to your _death_ , you mean!" she snapped, a little harsher than she intended. "You need to lie still. Sir."

"Negative. Our environment cannot help but prove injurious. Under current conditions, I calculate my chances of survival to be less than thirty to one after another two hours' exposure. I am…undamaged enough to be ambulatory. Our most efficient course would be to seek some sort of shelter. One that would provide us with adequate protection against the elements."

Uhura cocked her head and looked at him. Spock's skin was a sallow yellow-green. He was weak from loss of blood. And _despite_ his Vulcan control, he could barely manage to keep his body from trembling, both from shock and with the cold. Her dark lips curled with affection.

"You mean, we should get out of the rain?"

"Precisely."

Spock shifted into a seated position. She watched him, but did not offer a hand to steady him when he paled and looked as if he might faint. They had served several years together and she knew the boundaries he had established. She had tried teasing – even flirting with him now and again – to see how solid his Vulcan wall was. It was solid.

 _Impregnable,_ in fact.

"Sir," Uhura began, keeping her face straight, "it is a medical fact, is it not, that severe blood loss inevitably leads to the inability to maintain control over one's functions?"

His lips pursed. They were tinged at the edges with a sickly shade of green. "It is, Lieutenant."

"You are bleeding, sir. And you have _been_ bleeding." She used her official tone – the one that usually said 'hailing frequencies open, Captain', a hundred times a day – hoping it would mask the worry in her voice. Spock had fallen a good ten meters to the ground. His body was bruised and battered. Though nothing appeared to be broken, he moved like a man with broken ribs and, perhaps, internal injuries. But _that_ wasn't the worst of it. On contact with the ground he had struck something that had left a gash in his left thigh that ran nearly the length of the long, lean limb. When she had removed his regulation boot, she found almost as much of the emerald green liquid in it as on the ground where he lay. "Is it not therefore – logical – to conclude that movement would prove…detrimental?" Uhura asked, a slight smile playing about her lips. How many times had she heard Captain Kirk turn that word back on his science officer and friend?

She saw him glance down, noting with approval her binding of his wound. She had used strips formed from the blue cloth of his now defunct uniform shirt. The Vulcan was attired now only in the black singlet he wore underneath and black pants. Spock gazed up at her, one elegant eyebrow lifted. "You are a most _expert_ attendant, Lieutenant. The blood flow has been …reduced to a tolerable level." He drew a breath as he shifted his weight and then paused, probably waiting for the world to stop spinning. "At present, I can see no other logical course of action than to ignore such medical fact as you mention and to … _suspend_ logic and act –"  
"Irrationally?" she asked, the smile even _less_ hidden.

Both black brows peaked. "Prudently. The cold and rain will do neither of us any good, Lieutenant. Deevers, I assume is – "

Uhura shuddered at the image in her mind. Deevers had occupied the co-pilot's chair. When the impact with the cliff had sheered off the side of the shuttle, he had leapt from his seat and reached for Spock. As the Vulcan plunged toward the forest below, Deevers had leaned out to try and catch him and struck –

"Quite dead, sir."

Spock hesitated. Then he braced his hands on the ground and pushed off. Slowly, he rose to his feet. "As _we_ shall soon be if we do not seek shelter."

She reached out in spite of herself, but caught it before she touched him. "Sir! You'll open the wound again. I'm concerned the femoris artery has been compromised. You've lost a _lot_ of blood. If only we had Dr. McCoy's medikit. It fell with you. I haven't been able to find it yet."

The look out of the Vulcan's eyes belied his words. "At the moment, Lieutenant, your concern is noted but irrelevant." Spock made an attempt to pull his tunic down, as was his habit, only to remember it was gone. As it seemed his hands had nothing to do, he linked them behind his back. Then he wobbled. Regaining his equilibrium, if not his composure, he continued, "Lt. Uhura, my survival does not depend on remaining immobile. Yours, however, _does_ depend on mobility and action. You are shivering. It is imperative that you as well as I take shelter from the rapidly dropping temperature and rain. We cannot afford to have the both of us out of commission." He paused and then added with something akin to a scowl. "The uniforms of Starfleet females are constructed with neither protection or comfort in mind, but for the aesthetics of the female form and the appraisal and appreciation of the male animal."

"I didn't think you had noticed," Uhura commented, allowing the smile to beam.

" _Miss_ Uhura. This is neither the time or place…."

Uhura's smile suddenly faded. "The _time_ or place…. Mr. Spock, from the time we entered the anomaly, we were unable to make contact with any Earth stations, Starfleet or otherwise. _All_ communications failed. Don't you find that odd?"

"Such a complete failure on a planet as advanced technologically as Earth is troubling," he admitted.

"Unless the planet we landed on is _not_ so technologically advanced." Uhura drew a sharp breath. "The anomaly we entered could have acted as a kind of _time tunnel,_ couldn't it? Propelling us back in time, like what happened with Captain Christopher? I've tried my communicator again, sir. It is useless. So is yours." The dark-skinned woman paused. "It seems there is no one out there _to_ answer."

"The anomaly could have been…artificial manipulated, if a sufficiently intelligent and capable race existed and had a desire to do such a thing within reach of Earth. If true, the threat posed to both Earth and the Federation would be incalculable," he replied as a shiver shook him. "The hypothesis, however, remains unproven until empirical data can be obtained to either confirm or deny it."

Uhura's dark head cocked to one side. "Well, there is one thing I don't need empirical data to confirm."

"And that would be?" Spock asked.

"The uniforms of Starfleet _males_ don't seem to have been designed for survival under extreme circumstances either. What's left of yours is doing little to protect you." Spock was, plain and simple, a mess. His heavy blue shirt, which might have afforded him _some_ protection, was gone. His short-sleeved singlet was intact, but his uniform pants were badly torn. The rent in the cloth showed the taut, well-muscled leg beneath.

One black eyebrow cocked at a rakish angle. "Why, Lieutenant, I didn't think _you_ had noticed."

Uhura sputtered and blushed burgundy, appropriately put in her place.

Spock hesitated for a moment, and then added more softly, "Empirical data or not, Lieutenant, logic concludes we must seek shelter. It dictates as well…that I am incapable at this time of doing so on my own." He reached out and made contact on his own initiative, placing a hand on her shoulder in an effort to remain upright. "I would be most…grateful…for your support."

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Several miles south of the wrecked remains of the starship Enterprise's shuttlecraft _Columbus_ , a deeply bronzed Cherokee warrior sat beneath a tree, offering shelter and support to the small boy he traveled with. Cara-mingo, or Mingo as his friends called him, was gazing at the night sky with its endless parade of stars. His lips pursed and he sighed before turning his dark eyes to the white-blond head of the child who rested against him, safe in the protective circle of his arms. Israel Boone was worn out with wonder. And why not? Several hours before they had witnessed an event of great moment, though to Mingo it brought not wonder but apprehension. Something new had come into the world this night; something important enough to compel the Great Spirit to mark its arrival with a tail of fire. His friend, Daniel, was away with Tupper, running furs to New Salem. As promised Mingo had gone to the Boone cabin to check in on his family during the frontiersman's absence. He had done some chores for Rebecca, listened while Jemima chattered on about beaus and imaginary balls, and spent an hour or so reading to Israel. When the time had come for him to leave, he could not miss the boy's dejected face. It seemed, once he left, that it was Jemima's intention to make her brother aid her in acting out one of her imagined scenarios. Taking pity on the small male, Mingo offered to rescue Israel from the household of women for a few hours by taking him hunting. Rebecca had sternly warned them that they had best bring something back for the table and that he, Mingo, had _best_ remain to eat it. Both men had agreed, and Rebecca had favored them with one of her wonderful half-hidden smiles. Daniel's wife was not fooled. She knew what it was all about. Israel had desired to go with his father and was feeling lost and abandoned and in need of male companionship. But it was not only for Israel that she let the boy go, Mingo mused. Rebecca Boone had sensed, as only a woman could, that _he_ was feeling lost as well and in need of the family he did not have. It had not been all that long since Lord Dunsmore had been in Boonesborough. His father's visit to Kentucky had left him, in some ways, unnerved. Even though he and John Murray had seldom seen eye to eye, the stiff English lord – complete with the baggage of tradition, heritage and regulations – _was_ family. With his mother dead Lord Dunsmore, along with everything the Englishman represented, was all the family he had – and Mingo had chosen to reject him. The path he preferred had led him to a solitary life. Neither truly Cherokee nor English, he belonged to neither world and fit in nowhere. Mingo smiled at Israel's puzzled look.

Until he had met Daniel Boone, that was.

"You are awake, Israel?"

The boy shifted. "Sure 'nuff, Mingo. I was just…restin' my eyes. Who could sleep after seein' what we saw? Gosh, it lit up the whole sky!"

"It did indeed." From his years at Oxford, the Cherokee warrior knew well the scientific explanation of a comet. It was nothing more than a physical phenomenon that had been documented by man. But that was the understanding of his _father's_ world. From his mother's, he had learned that the Great Spirit used such physicalphenomenon to manifest _spiritual_ power. Mingo glanced up again. The comet's tail was nearly gone – as if it had never been. But, of course, it _had_ been, and that meant something important hadhappened.

Unfortunately, the wisdom of his mother's people did not promise whether it would be for good or _ill_.

Mingo sniffed and breathed in the night air. The curious scent was still there, though it too had faded. He had _nosed_ it earlier as the comet blazed across the sky. It was the scent of smoke, but not of a clean wood-smoke born of a fire such as he and his young companion had kindled earlier. No, this smoke carried with it the sour odor of London; of oil, metal, and blast furnaces. It was at that moment that Mingo had decided to stop and make camp. He had been unwilling to take Daniel Boone's small son either forward or back until he better understood just _what_ had occurred.

"Your people think comets are magic, don't they, Mingo?"

He smiled. "Not 'magic', Israel. They are seen more as a _signpost_ pointing to an event of great importance."

"Like finding a turkey for Ma's table?" Israel asked with only the hint of a smile.

Mingo ruffled the boy's near-white hair. "Like finding a _sea_ of them and providing Rebecca with an endless supply. Now, young man, do you not think it would be wise for you to get some sleep?"

The blue eyes returned to the sky and the wonder of it all. "Ah, Mingo…do I _haf'ta?"_

Adopting the look he had seen the boy's father wear upon occasion – one of tolerant, but firm love, the bronzed warrior replied, "I cannot force you to sleep. I leave it up to you. You may remain awake all night if that is your choice. Then, when the morning dawns and we have need of both strength _and_ speed – "

"I won't have neither," Israel admitted with a yawn. As he rubbed his eyes, the boy added sleepily, "I guess I am a _little_ tired…."

Mingo rose and went to where he had left the supplies they had brought with them. He rummaged for a moment. With a wry smile, he shifted aside the kit Rebecca had handed him. It was complete with linen bandages and her own special poultices and salves for the treatment of burns, wounds and breaks. He had lifted one black eyebrow at their inclusion, knowing the intended target of both her kindness – and amusement – was not her son, but _him_. Beneath the kit was a warm woolen blanket woven of the deepest reds and blues, also supplied by the boy's mother. Mingo tossed the covering over his shoulder and went back, only to find Daniel Boone's son already snoring.

After tucking the boy in tightly, Mingo walked to the edge of the small clearing they occupied, intent on making a quick circuit of it before attempting to snatch a few hours sleep for himself. He stood for a moment, backlit by a flash of lightning. Not far away, a storm was raging. Here, they were dry, but it might be necessary before the night was over to seek shelter in a cave or under a jutting ledge. There were several close by. They were, after all, on the land between Chota and the white settlement of Boonesborough. It was familiar to him from his childhood, and from renewed acquaintance as a man. As the distant thunder rumbled across the clouds, Mingo's eyes turned once again to the roiling sky. If he had been only a _tiny_ bit more Cherokee, he would have read the Great Spirit's anger in the dark and pendulous clouds. But the cool, dignified English blood in his veins prevented him from reacting like an 'ignorant savage' to a simple act of nature.

Well, _almost_ prevented it.

Mingo shuddered and not with the cold. He had a sense that events were soon to unfold; events that carried with them the potential of _forever_ changing the course of their lives. A moment later another bolt of lightning lit the world before him. As it did, something on the forest floor glinted. Whatever it was, it rested about one hundred feet away. Perhaps, a little more. Glancing back at Israel, he hesitated. They had not intended to remain in the wild overnight or he would have brought a third man along with them. When something of this nature arose, he found himself torn as to whether to leave the child alone or not. Still, no matter how hard one tried, one could simply _not_ predict the unpredictable. Ascertaining what the object was would mean leaving Israel for no more than a few minutes. Still, in the wilderness, a few minutes was _more_ than enough time for disaster to strike. Returning to Daniel's son, Mingo pulled the dark coverlet over the boy's white hair and was satisfied to find that he almost entirely disappeared. Only someone _looking_ could find him. With a quick prayer on his lips that Israel remain asleep and not attempt to follow him, Mingo took off at a sprint through the trees.

As he ran, he noticed there was a hollowed trail of burnt and broken grass and twigs on the ground. The area of the forest he entered appeared to have been struck by a violent whirlwind, only to be followed – as unlikely as it was – by a sudden firestorm. Burnt and broken limbs, twisted from the trees, had been tossed helter-skelter. Mingo halted, his eyes on the ground, waiting for a repeat of the lightning's flash. The Shawnee's Thunderbirds spoke again and winked their mighty eyes. In the light of their judgment he saw it – a square piece of metal, or perhaps a box, glistening as if it were a fine piece of gold filigree.

It was not what he had expected.

Mingo glanced back toward the camp, making certain Israel had not wakened or followed. When the lightning revealed nothing, he turned back. The Cherokee warrior walked slowly toward the object. As he drew near it, he paused. His moccasined feet had sunk into the grass in a sickeningly familiar way. Kneeling, Mingo thrust his fingers down into it and brought them up sheathed in a thick viscous substance. The stormy light did not reveal its color, but he knew it well enough by feel. Blood. And a lot of it. Someone had been wounded and fallen here. They had lain for some time. Perhaps the item he had spotted was a kind of weapon, abandoned in the victim's haste to escape. Shifting, Mingo reached over and took it in hand.

It was rectangular in shape. The bottom half appeared to be lacquered black, similar to items he had bought as young man from the China trade. The top half was smaller than the bottom and resembled a mesh cloth woven out of metal thread. Now that he had it in his hand, it looked more brass than gold.

It was like nothing he had ever seen.

Puzzled, Mingo turned the box over and over, seeking a way to open it. Unexpectedly, he was rewarded as the brass top swung open, revealing what lay within. Looking at it, he pursed his lips and sighed. As a boy in England, he had been fascinated by the elegant clockwork figures that adorned so many buildings and moved as if with a life of their own. His father had humored him once, taking him to meet the man who made many of them for the king's court. Inside the clocks that moved the painted figures, there had been wheels and gears, small knobs and springs; each one a mystery in itself and each contributing to the marvelous, wondrous whole.

What he held in his hand seemed one piece of _just_ such a mechanical puzzle. Some sort of dial – looking for all the world like a wound clock spring – had been set into the interior. Beneath the dial there were three jewels and a small silver plate. He could see no possible use for it. It was not a weapon. Neither was it an object of beauty.

But it _was_ one of curiosity.

As the lightning flashed again and he felt the first strike of rain against his bronzed skin, Mingo rose and turned back toward the camp where he had left Israel sleeping. He had tarried longer than intended, and in that time the storm had all but overtaken them. Idly, but for a _moment_ only, he considered which parent – the Cherokee or English – had gifted him the sin of intense curiosity. With a shrug of his broad shoulders, Mingo closed the odd metal object and placed it in his bandoleer. It really didn't matter. Either way, it was as much a part of him as his love of music and literature. Of course, music and literature seldom led him into trouble.

Well, there _had_ been that time back in sixty-nine with Catherine….

Mingo stiffened at a noise that was strangely out of place. It was, also, curiously muffled. It seemed as if it came from within a womb of cloth or a nest of wool. The sound was something like a single 'toot' on a horn, but that wasn't it. It was curious. Odd.

 _Alien._

A moment later the Cherokee warrior realized with a start that it was coming from his own bandoleer!

"What?" Mingo mouthed as he opened the bag. He drew the strange black box out and looked at it. As he did, it tooted again nearly causing him to drop it. Involuntarily the native's deep brown eyes returned to the sky. Something _had_ ridden the tail of the comet to Ken-tah-ten.

But what?


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two

 _Outer Space_

Jim Kirk shifted uneasily in his command chair and then wondered why. He had no _reason_ to feel uneasy. The assignment they had been given – to deliver supplies and a civilian survey party to a nearby star system less than one week's travel from Earth – was routine enough. So routine, in fact, that he had ordered additional rest periods for the crew, intending to give them plenty of time to relax and just _play._ They wouldn't have time for shore leave and, this close to what was home for a major portion of the crew, that was a sore disappointment and sure to take its toll on morale. They had only had time to launch the shuttle _Columbus_ along with its three man crew, before swinging around the moon and heading off into space. Once they returned – five point three five days from now, as his missing Vulcan first officer would no doubt have informed him – they would be off on their next assignment, which would take them back to the edge of the Neutral Zone. After their earlier encounter with a Romulan warbird and its first-rate crew and commander, the Federation had been forced to acknowledge this ancient foe was far more sophisticated and rather more formidable than they had hoped. If the Romulans were like Vulcans _unleashed…._

Jim actually shuddered.

"I see you've taken a chill, Captain. And here I was, just coming up to prescribe some old-fashioned medicine in a bottle for what ailed you. Seems Spock's not the _only_ one with a high ESP quotient," Leonard McCoy remarked in his long, languid way as he arrived at the side of the command chair.

Kirk shot him a look. "Bones, as tempting as it sounds, I don't have time for a drink."

The crusty surgeon scowled and fixed him with his professional eye. "Hmmm. Even worse. Delusions of grandeur."

"Bones…."

The Georgia doctor raised a hand and pointed toward the screen, which showed nothing but an empty field of stars. Then he stepped forward and touched Lt. Sulu softly on the shoulder. The Asian helmsman jumped.

Sulu pivoted in his chair, chagrinned. "Sorry, Doc. I guess I was daydreaming. A man can only look at _so_ many stars before he gets lost in them." The helmsman nodded toward the viewscreen and the endless starfield. "Not much action this close to home."

"You see, Bones," Jim said quietly, with a wry smile. "I need to be on the bridge, if only to keep my bridge _crew_ awake."

Sulu blushed a deep bronze and turned back, his spine straight and his eyes trained on the screen.

Beneath the knuckles he pressed to his lips, the captain of the Enterprise smiled. Then he said softly, "At ease, Mr. Sulu."

The Asian shot him a look of gratitude. "Thank you, sir."

For a moment, no one said anything. Kirk shifted again, uncomfortably aware of the absent members of his crew. He missed Uhura's lyrical voice, giving regular updates on interplanetary chatter. And Spock. The Vulcan was always there when he needed him to distract McCoy and put the doctor off his mother hen act. Still, he shouldn't grouse. Uhura _had_ managed to persuade his logical, ever-efficient and self-denying Vulcan first officer to take a vacation.

Miracles indeed _could_ happen.

"So you suppose the folks in Uhura's town will appreciate that caterwauling Spock calls music?" Leonard McCoy asked, as if reading his thoughts.

They'd been together too long, him and Bones, Kirk mused.

"I imagine Mr. Spock has taken that into consideration. He and Uhura make quite a team from what I hear." At the surgeon's look, he added quickly, "When performing." As Bones' grizzled brows shot up, Kirk cleared his throat. "Music. I've never attended one of their impromptu concerts, but the reports have been…good."

Bones pursed his lips in characteristic fashion. "You know, I think Uhura is one of the few females on this ship who doesn't feel a desire to… _perform_ with Mr. Spock."

Kirk shifted again. The conversation was not going the way he had intended. "Well, they are fellow officers and – "

"Being 'fellow officers' hasn't stopped the other two hundred or so women on board this ship from some pretty lively…daydreams." Bones' eyes shot to Sulu briefly. The Asian helmsman was doing his best to appear _not_ to be listening. "I know, I've treated enough of them for depression, Jim."

Oh well, Kirk mused, at least Sulu was awake now. "I thought you came here to examine me, Bones, not Spock or Uhura. Or am I mistaken? Is this _purely_ a social call?"

"A bit of both," McCoy admitted with a shrug. "I wanted a brandy and, well, you know what they say about a person who drinks alone.…"

Kirk peered at the viewscreen. It remained as it had been for the last twelve hours – a big rectangle of black shot with about a million dots of white. This close to Earth there was little chance of danger – or anything for him, as captain, to do. In truth he hated this sort of run. Other, smaller ships could have been used. But since they had been so close and he had owed Admiral Chase a favor….

"You have the com, Mr. Sulu," Jim Kirk said as he slapped a hand against the console of the command chair and rose from its black depths. "Any sign of trouble you will alert me. I'll be in the doctor's quarters, finishing up the…examination."

"Finishing it _off_ , you mean," McCoy murmured with a smile.

"Aye, aye, sir." Sulu was silent a moment. Then he pivoted in his chair. "I'll be sure to let you know the moment one of those stars gets lost."

Leonard McCoy smiled as James T. Kirk, captain of the Starship Enterprise, settled into a chair in his office and accepted a glass of Saurian Brandy. He had ordered the stuff specifically for the occasion. As the captain's surgeon he knew that times of inaction – such as they were experiencing now – were harder on this _particular_ man's psyche than any full-blown crisis. Jim needed to be needed. It was as simple as that. Settling into his own chair, McCoy took a sip of the strong liquor. Then he waited and watched while Kirk did the same. It only took two seconds for a look of pure amazement to settle on the captain's boyishly handsome features.

"Bones, this is real!"

"Well, I didn't think it was a figment of my imagination," the surgeon drawled as he sampled the brew again.

"No, I mean, _this_ isn't synthesized. This is the real thing!" Kirk took another appreciative sip.

Bones raised his glass. "Just what the doctor ordered," he replied with a laugh. "I had a vendor beam it up before we left the moon's orbit."

"It made it through regulation channels?"

"Two boxes marked 'for medicinal purposes only'." Bones took another deep drink and then winked. "The crate's one bottle shy. And the Federation is down one customs agent with a hangover."

Kirk smiled that smile that had not only launched the Enterprise, but broken a thousand intergalactic hearts. He lifted his glass. "Here's to you, Bones."

Leonard McCoy inclined his head. "The best remedy any southern doctor could prescribe."

Jim laughed and downed the remainder in one gulp. McCoy did the same, relishing the liquid fire that coursed through his system, and allowed himself to relax. There was no emergency. No impending disaster. The ship was on a mission so routine the most he had to fear was treating the crew for boredom. And, most blessed of all, that pointy-eared Vulcan was not around to give him hell.

But then again, there went the evening's entertainment.

"Seriously, Jim, I do wonder what makes Uhura immune to Spock's charms."

Kirk was pouring another glass. He halted and looked over at him. "Where did _that_ come from?"

"I don't know. Medical need?" At Jim's look, he added with a grin. "Whatever she's got, I'd like to bottle it and sell it. Think of the possibilities. It's not only Spock, you know? There's about 6 billion Vulcans. I'd make a fortune."

Kirk shook his head. "Uhura is a more than competent officer. She wouldn't be in line for command if she wasn't. I think her first love is more in the order of science than _any_ science officer."

"She's good at daily recreation – that voice of hers gives her plenty of reason – but I worry about her."

"Why?" Jim asked as he settled back.

"The nature of her work carries with it, its own risks."

Kirk leaned forward. "Explain."

"Well, you know Spock can read that gibberish the computer spits out without having it processed or changed into words. Have you seen Uhura? She does the same thing."

"So?"

"Think of the mental gymnastics that takes. The concentration. And the way the woman monitors that board, watching every blinking light, listening for every whisper in that great eternity we call space."

"It's her job. Others do it too."

"But not as well. How often do you find _her_ on the bridge instead of someone else from her department?"

Kirk seemed to consider it. "About as much as Spock," he said with a grin.

"Right. She's just as driven as he is. But she's human. Uhura needs to allow herself time to rest, time for a relationship, or maybe even something more permanent. From what I've seen, it's not that she's not interested in Spock – she's not interested in _anyone_." McCoy drew a breath and gave the captain his best 'doctorly' look. "It's not _good_ to be alone."

Jim took another sip and then said, "Surgeon heal thyself."

 _Touché._

"Ah, Jim, I've been alone so long I wouldn't know what to do with a woman," McCoy replied with a shrug of his blue uniform tunic.

"Don't you have manuals for that sort of thing?"

This time McCoy blew brandy out his nose. He leaned back and said, "It's been too long since we've done this. I guess we can thank Starfleet for handing us a dull assignment. Pour another one, Jim, it's time to get plastered. Doctor's orders."

"Bones, I don't – "

Fifteen minutes later – and about as many drinks – both men came instantly alert as a piercing shriek sounded through the sickbay office, and the crimson rectangle of light on the wall suddenly came to life.

"Red Alert! Red Alert!" Lt. Sulu's voice rang out. "Captain to the bridge."

Jim was on his feet – if somewhat shakily – in an instant. "What is it, Sulu? Has one of the stars gone missing?"

"No, sir. Emergency in engineering. Mr. Scott got word through that there has been an explosion resulting in the release of dangerous gases. I told him to get out, but he refused and returned to aid his men."

"Damn it, Jim! Any fume released by the equipment in that area could be deadly!" McCoy paused. He could tell by the captain's face that the thought had already occurred to him.

"Any words since then, Mr. Sulu?"

"No, sir. Nothing."

Leonard McCoy watched Jim Kirk slump for a moment and then, almost before his eyes, transform into the man of decision and action he knew. "Maintain the con, Mr. Sulu. Dr. McCoy and I are headed for engineering."

"Aye, sir. And, uh, sir…."

"Yes."

"What should I tell our passengers? They're lighting up the board with questions."

"Tell them…." Kirk's hazel eyes flicked to the surgeon's face. "Tell them there's a glitch in the system and there's nothing to worry about. Kirk out."

"A glitch in the system?" Bones inquired. "They're bound to find out sooner or later."

"Let them. Once I know what has happened, I don't care what they learn," his friend replied. "Until then, I intend to keep them happy – and in the dark."

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

In less than two minutes the ship's elevator deposited them in the corridor outside engineering. The area was thick with a noxious smoke. Jim Kirk glanced at McCoy as they strode forward through it. His old friend was cursing himself for a _fool_ as the surgeon realized he had not thought to bring masks for them to wear. Bone's self-condemnation eased somewhat as Christine Chapel appeared from out of nowhere with two in hand. By the time he had donned one, Kirk's throat was raw. He damned himself for his moment of indulgence. Though the call to action had sobered him quickly enough, the liquor was still in his veins – his reaction time was slowed, his perceptions off.

Even as the thought crossed his mind, Kirk felt the sting of hypo spray against his shoulder. Whirling, he demanded, his voice slightly muffled by the mask, "Bones, _what_ was that?"

"Instant sobriety," the doctor replied, sounding like he was a mile away. "Though I warn you, the alcohol you consumed will pack quite a wallop in about six hours when the medication wears off."

"Thanks." It was _now_ he needed his wits about him. He'd worry about the after effects later. Nodding toward the crewman who stood by the door that led into engineering, he indicated McCoy should follow him. The man was using a phaser to cut through the wall beside the door.

"Davies, isn't it?" the captain asked.

The man nodded, "Aye, sir."

Kirk watched his progress for a moment and then asked, "Did the explosion damage the door circuits?"

The man continued to work for a moment. Then he paused and looked at him. "No, sir. They appear to have been deliberately cut. That's why I am working to free the internal mechanism."

"Deliberately?" Kirk did his best to hide his astonishment. "Then it's sabotage?"

"Seems likely, sir."

"How long?" he asked as Davies returned to the task at hand.

"Seconds, sir. I'd advise you stand back. We have no idea how much pressure has built up, or how extreme the escaping gases will be."

Kirk nodded, but still he hesitated. It was not in him to leave his men in harm's way while he sought shelter for himself. He didn't move until Leonard McCoy caught his arm and indicated the safety of the connecting hallway.

"Come on, Jim."

"I should be _here_ , Bones," he snarled.

"And if you are scalded by the air or knocked unconscious, what good will _that_ do the men trapped inside? It's not weakness, Jim, it's _common sense_." The surgeon paused and then added with a slightly elevated eyebrow. "It is also imminently logical."

Jim laughed. The tension broken, he nodded. "I bow to your superior wisdom." With a glance at the crewman, he added, "Take no unnecessary risks. Get yourself out of harm's way as quickly as possible."

The young man who was, perhaps, twenty-two, nodded. "Aye, Captain."

Kirk clapped his hand on the security man's shoulder, and then allowed his friend to lead him around the corner to safety. He had barely counted five when he heard the door slide open. It was immediately followed by a loud _whoosh_ and then the most terrible sound of all.

Silence.

Kirk broke free. He rounded the corner at a pace and was the first one into engineering. For a moment, between the tears that stung his eyes and the smoke and gases, he couldn't see anything. Then, as one of the technicians behind him began to use an instrument to vacuum the noxious air out of the room, he saw to his horror that there were at least a half-dozen men laying on the floor.

One of them was Montgomery Scott.

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

"Bones? Well? _Bones?"_

Leonard McCoy looked up at his captain and friend. He and Nurse Chapel were busy running diagnostics on Mr. Scott and assessing his condition. Of the eight crewmen from engineering that had been brought in, only Scotty and Ensign Clark remained alive. When Kirk had asked him why, the captain hadn't liked his reply.

Luck of the draw.

"Bones!"

McCoy held up a hand as he looked at the diagnostic board above Scot's head. He took another hypo from Chapel and checked it, and then applied it to the engineer's reddened skin. After a moment Scotty's vitals settled down to something _near_ normal. The surgeon accepted a cloth from his nurse and wiped his brow. "He's out of danger, Jim. But it was close."

"Clark?"

"More damage to his lungs, but I think he'll make it. I'm…I'm sorry, Jim, about the other men. There was nothing I could do."

Kirk's hazel eyes reflected the fact that he already knew that. He said nothing, but nodded. As hard as it was for _him_ to lose a patient, McCoy knew that it was harder still for the captain to lose one of his crew. Jim Kirk took personal responsibility for each and every one of the over four hundred lives on the Enterprise.

"Any word yet on who did this, or why?" McCoy asked, the tone of his voice indicating what he would like to do to them.

"No. If it weren't for the sabotaged door, I'd be tempted to think it was an accident."

"Nae in _my_ department," a feeble voice protested.

"Scotty! You shouldn't be talking," the surgeon chastised as he glanced at the indicators of the engineer's vitals again, which were now dancing dangerously high. "Nurse, I want this man unconscious. Now!"

"Nae, Doctor," Scotty countered, "I needs moost talk tae the captain." The engineer's voice was a rasp; his breathing, labored.

"As your surgeon – "

"Bones." He felt Jim Kirk's hand on his arm. "I _need_ to hear what he has to say."

"It goes against my best judgement, Jim."

"That's an _order_ , Bones," his _captain_ said softly.

McCoy knew he could challenge that, but decided not to. "Two minutes, Jim, no more."

As the surgeon stepped back, Jim Kirk leaned in over the engineer's supine form. "What happened, Scotty? _Was_ it sabotage?"

"Aye. I'd noticed the wee bairns were working a bit slow. I had one of the lad's pull a panel." Scott paused to draw a shallow, difficult breath. "There was something there, attached to the lines. Some _alien_ thing."

"Alien? How _alien?_ "

"Like nothin' I'd ever seen, Captain. It was bio-electronic. Mechanical…and organic at one and the same time. It seemed to be reading the engines. I was aboot…to put a call into ye when it suddenly seemed to become aware of me."

"Aware of you?" McCoy asked, incredulous.

"Aye. There was a smell – like some kind of acid – and then the…whole thing exploded in our faces." Scotty paused, breathing hard. "How many…of the lads did I lose?"

Bones exchanged a look with the captain. Kirk shook his head imperceptibly. Moving in, the surgeon said quietly, "They're all here in sickbay, Scotty. We'll do what we can for them." As he nodded to Christine to administer a sedative, McCoy turned wearily to look into the stasis room that served as a temporary morgue until the bodies could be moved.

Well, it _wasn't_ a lie.

He felt Jim's hand on his shoulder again. "Bones, you did all you could."

For a moment he was silent, then he replied. "I know. But it's never enough. Sometimes I feel like I haven't come very far from my southern ancestors who prescribed brandy for everything from a bad tooth to gunshot wounds."

His captain nodded, and then suddenly stumbled. For a moment he looked confused, and then Jim Kirk's skin started to turn the shade of green of his Vulcan first officer's. "What? Bones, I don't feel so good…."

McCoy glanced at the chronometer. Five hours and fifty-two minutes. "I told you there was a payment for instant sobriety. Time's up."

"What's happening to me?"

"When the sobriety drug wears off, the effects of the alcohol hit your system ten-fold. I think you better take a bed, Jim, and sleep it off."

The captain's eyes flashed with crisp anger. "Bones! There's a mass murderer loose on my ship!"

"Well, you won't find him by stumbling down the corridors like a drunken sailor."

Kirk shook his head, regretted it, and then swallowed hard. "Give me another shot."

"No way, Jim. Another and you'll end up catatonic. Just take an hour's nap. Maybe two. After that, you'll be up and running at top efficiency."

Jim was frowning at him. "Why aren't _you_ effected?"

"Never use the stuff."

"You drank _more_ than me!"

McCoy pursed his lips as his friend lurched forward and then collapsed into his arms. He nodded to Chapel, who helped him to place the blond man in one of the sickbay beds. As the doctor glanced at the monitor beeping out his captain's vitals, he permitted himself a grin. "Iowa farm boys don't hold a candle to southern gentlemen when it comes to holding their liquor."

As McCoy turned back to other his patients, the sickbay's intercom bleeped, demanding his attention.

"Do you want me to answer it, Doctor?" Chapel asked.

"No, I'll get it." McCoy walked wearily over to the unit and keyed it on. "What is it?"

"Sulu, here, Doc. I need to talk to the captain."

McCoy glanced at the diagnostic bed. Jim Kirk was snoring.

"Not possible. The captain is…out of action for an hour or two."

"Was he injured?"  
"No. But his surgeon prescribed an _enforced_ rest. Now what's wrong?"

"It's the shuttlecraft, Dr. McCoy. An emergency beacon from Starfleet command was just received. Mr. Spock and Lt. Uhura never arrived."


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter Three

Lieutenant Nyota Uhura was not a woman given to despair. Well, that wasn't quite true. Occasionally she _did_ despair of ever saying anything other than 'hailing frequencies open, sir,' or of playing a more vital role in the life of the Starship Enterprise than that of chief communications officer. But that was a featherweight despair, shaken off as easily as a bad dream. This one was heavyweight.

Spock was going to die, and there wasn't a _thing_ she could do about it.

Uhura turned from the entry of the cave to look back at him. The Vulcan science officer had not protested _too_ much when she brought him here, though he had chafed a bit at her womanly ministrations. She had lowered him to the ground and then proceeded to unwrap his bandaged leg, only to find that the bleeding had been controlled by the tourniquet she had applied, but not stopped. She felt like a fool when Spock inspected her work and explained that the pressure point she had chosen, while quite correct for a human, had been wrong for a Vulcan-human hybrid whose heart lay on the left side of the torso, between the ribs and pelvis. Uhura had apologized, been reprimanded for doing so, and then thanked quietly by her patient as she reapplied the tourniquet in the correct place.

She had left Spock then, propped against the cave wall, to go in search of supplies.

The first _logical_ place to look had been the remains of the downed shuttlecraft. In her haste to escape the wreckage and find Spock, she had not checked it very thoroughly. It was, at most, a mile and a half north of the cave she had chosen to shelter them. On her way she marked her trail with stones and scratches on rocks just as she had learned in survival training. As the new day dawned around her, in spite of everything, her spirits had lifted. The land she walked had been lush and verdant; the color of the grass and leaves a deep blue-green, and the sky, _blue_ as anything she had ever seen. It took about twenty minutes to reach the crash site. Setting about scavenging the wreck, she had found herself humming an ancient Vulcan tune. The memory of how she learned it made her smile. When Mr. Spock first mentioned it – as they prepared for their joint presentation at the conference – he had hesitated to perform it for her. She had wondered why until she coaxed him into it, and then she understood. The melody was plaintive, but it was also sweet and rich with the emotion of a mother's love for her child. Spock told her that it belonged to the days before Surak and admitted, though it did not follow the standard form of Vulcan music, that the tune was revered as deeply as their ancestor's memory.

She had wondered at the time if it had been Spock's Earth-born mother or his stoic Vulcan father who had sung it to him.

Uhura fell silent as she crossed the cave and walked to the Vulcan's side where she stood looking down at him. She had spent several hours rummaging in the wreckage, but had managed to salvage very little. She _had_ found a spare set of engineer's overalls that she had brought with her and used to make new bandages. No food had remained – not that they had brought much aboard to begin with. Still, there should have been emergency rations. Footprints painted in Deever's blood indicated what had became of them. A wolf, or some other large predator had discovered the food in their absence. Uhura shuddered at the thought. It was fortunate she had taken time after the crash and _before_ beginning her search for Spock, to use one of the shuttle's standard phasers to dig a grave for the navigator, or else Lt. Deevers' corpse would have been the main course at the animal's feast.

The Bantu woman knelt by the starship's first officer. She had returned to find Spock prostrate on the cave floor, unconscious, his lean body feverish. She knew the Vulcan was capable of going into some sort of healing trance, but so far he had not done so. She could only surmise that, as commanding officer, he felt responsible for her and knew, if he did, that she would be left alone. But then again from what she understood of Vulcan physiology, the purpose of the healing trance was to mend _internal_ injuries. Who knew if it could produce significant quantities of blood to replace what he had lost? Somehow, she doubted that it could. Uhura glanced back at the lush forested world outside the cave mouth. She _sincerely_ doubted they were going to find any copper-based blood donors here.

If only they hadn't lost that medikit!

She had searched for it on her way back to the cave. It had to have fallen out of the shuttle at the same time as Spock. Still, that knowledge did her little good. At the speed the doomed craft had been traveling, the kit could be anywhere within a two or three mile radius. It might be anchored high in the crook of a tree branch, or even have been driven into the earth by the force of the fall.

With a frown and a sigh Uhura reached out to brush the perfectly straight, precision cut hair away from the Vulcan's forehead. It was a useless gesture, but it made her feel better – until Spock opened his eyes.

"Mr. Spock! I thought you were unconscious."

He gritted his teeth and attempted to sit up. "I have been…conserving my strength." Spock shook his head as she reached out to steady him, once again denying the touch, and managed to lean back against the wall. "The blood flow has been curtailed, but it seems…." The Vulcan's body shook with a tremor. "It seems some foreign bacteria has entered the wound and it has become infected."

"Can you shake it if you go into a healing trance?" she asked, hopeful.

His near-black eyes sought hers. "Unknown. The trance is not a…panacea for all ills. Even should I attempt it, I doubt you would have the strength to bring me out of it."

She hadn't thought of that. Uhura remembered hearing from Christine how it had taken all of Dr. M'Benga's considerable strength to bring Spock back to consciousness. The healer had been forced to strike the Vulcan brutally over and over again.

"Then, what are we to do?" she asked.

Spock thought a moment. "Do we have a working tricorder?"

She shook her head. "No such luck. We have our communicators, the mediscanner and a phaser, though I used some of its power to bury Deevers." Uhura smiled at his frown. "I know it wasn't logical, but it was _human_."

"I fail to see how being 'human' serves as a justification for an act that has used in part – if not for the _most_ part – the only remaining energy supply we have," he replied, his tone cold and controlled. "And for the sole benefit of a dead man."

"There are predatory animals here," Uhura replied curtly, chiding herself for being angry with him for being _what_ he was. "I didn't think it wise to attract them."

The Vulcan fell silent for several seconds. Then he nodded. "Most logical. Was there anything else?"

Uhura rose to her feet and crossed to the mouth of the cave where she had left the few items she had salvaged from the craft; her own suitcase with most of its contents – which included several long, colorful flowing robes – a few tools, and another case that belonged to Spock. His did not contain clothing or food or anything remotely useful, but something far more _precious_. Picking it up, she returned with it to the first officer's side and held it out to him.

Pure unadulterated joy entered the Vulcan's pain-wracked eyes, but it was quickly suppressed. "It is most unfortunate that one of the few things to have survived the wreck of the _Columbus_ would prove to be of little intrinsic value in our current situation," Spock said.

Uhura watched as he placed a reverent hand on the wooden case that was adorned with Vulcan symbols. "It's intact," she said softly. "I checked."

"Most…efficient of you, Lieutenant." Spock's breathing grew labored as his fingers fumbled with the lock. "I should like to see for myself."

The Bantu woman nodded. She took the case in hand and tripped its hidden catches. It had taken her some time to figure them out, but before she returned it to him, she had wanted to know. The case opened to reveal an elegant instrument tucked safely inside. It contained the beautifully designed and crafted Vulcan lyrette the first officer played. Spock was taking it with him to the conference. She understood it was incredibly old.

As she watched Spock's fingers strummed the strings and the instrument seemed to sigh. Then, quite unexpectedly, he slumped forward unconscious.

"Mr. Spock!"

Uhura caught him and eased him to the ground. The Vulcan was always warm to the touch, but he was burning up now.

"Spock!" she called, shaking him gently. "Spock, you have to try the trance." He didn't hear her. Fretting, Uhura wondered if he had to make a c _onscious_ choice to enter the healing trance. If so, he was beyond it now.

Uhura removed the harp from beneath his fingers and placed it back in its case. Then she laid her hand alongside the wounded man's face and gazed at him. He was an enigma, this one. So cold, so calculated, _so_ precise. But that was the _Vulcan_ Mr. Spock. He was also human, and he was funny as well – _willingly_ , she believed, though she knew he would deny it to his dying breath. Spock was honest and honorable, and most of all, strong. It was no wonder half the female crew of the Enterprise were in love with him – or rather, with the _idea_ of him. Of course, she did not count herself among them. Spock was her colleague and she respected him more than any man with, perhaps, the exception of Captain Kirk.

She was not about to let him die.

Returning to her own suitcase, Uhura removed several of the flowing robes from it and then made her way back to her fallen companion's side. The Bantu woman smiled as she lay the multi-colored garments of her native land across the unconscious man's form. Not exactly to Vulcan taste, she thought, but they would do to keep the chill off. Uhura returned to the mouth of the cave and found her kit, and then took the phaser from it and proceeded to heat several of the rocks that lay near Spock. If she was to leave him for a time, she had to know he was warm.

There was little else she could do to preserve his life.

As Uhura returned the phaser to the kit, she noticed her communicator. It had been several hours since she had tried to raise the Enterprise and, though the effort was probably futile, regulations demanded it. The ship – if it even knew they were missing – had no way of knowing _where_ they were unless they received some sort of a distress call. She lifted the guard to check the readings on her communication device, only to find it had gone dead. Frustrated, she dropped it to the cave floor and dug in her kit for Spock's.

It was nowhere to be found!

Uhura's full lips formed a soft Swahili curse. She looked out of the cave, trying to remember her earlier actions. She must have dislodged the first officer's communicator from his belt while carrying and dragging him to the cave. Unfortunately, that meant it could be anywhere! She turned to gaze at the Vulcan's recumbent form, remembering their earlier conversation. Spock had not put much store in the idea of them having been thrust back in time, but it was the only thing that made sense to her. She knew the workings of the invisible and nearly impenetrable web of communications that surrounded her homeworld better than most. She had spent years studying it, and even more years learning its subtleties and nuances. The fact that they had not been able to raise _anyone_ was a good indicator that they were not on Earth as they had known it. And if they _had_ somehow fallen through time to an earlier era, then the loss of Mr. Spock's communicator meant much more than their last chance to establish a link with the ship.

It meant that the current timeline might be compromised.

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Mingo was a Cherokee warrior. He had faced down mighty foes and triumphed over men twice his size, and with greater strength. He had forded rushing rivers and scaled high, lofty crags of stone. Each of those battles paled when compared to the one he was waging now with a small white-haired boy not _half_ his size.

"But Mingo, I don't wanna go to Chota!" Israel Boone whined. "I want to stay with you."

"That would be my desire as well, Israel, were it not for the fear of the unknown." Mingo sighed. "What would your mother think if she knew I took you with me, knowing full well that I was walking into danger?"

"Well…she don't haf'ta know. Does she?"

" _I_ would know."

Israel scowled. The boy looked at his feet and used the battered toe of one leather boot to scuff at the pebbles lining the side of the path. Chota lay only a few hours away. As they traveled, they had come across one of his uncle's warriors, Silver Fox, who had agreed to take Daniel's small son to the village. The warrior stood by watching them with barely suppressed amusement.

Mingo knelt and took Israel's shoulders in his hands. "You must do this for me. If you are with me, I will have to think of you first – and that could lead me into even worst peril."

Israel thought about that for a moment. "You mean, if I _go_ , I'm helpin'?"

"You would honor me with your bravery in doing so," Mingo said solemnly.

The boy frowned. He glanced at Silver Fox, and then back. There was no fear in Israel's eyes, only a vague sort of apprehension. "Am I gonna stay in _his_ lodge?"

"Yes…."

"Is it full of _wimmen?_ "

Mingo laughed. "Silver Fox's wife is there, but no, other than that there are two boys – just about your age. And they are friends with Monlutha."

"Been a coon's age since I seen him," Daniel's son admitted with a sigh. "All right. I guess I'll go."

Mingo nodded and patted the boy's shoulder. In spite of his protests, Israel now seemed quite content to spend the day – or maybe two – in the Indian village. As Mingo rose to his feet, he turned to Silver Fox. "A favor?"

The warrior nodded. "Anything."

"Deliver Israel and then take word to his mother at the Boone cabin that the boy is all right. We were expected back last night, and Rebecca is most likely beside herself with worry."

Silver Fox was one of the tribe's swiftest runners. He could make it to Boonesborough in half the time it would have taken Mingo, and return in the same barely winded.

"I will see it done."

"Thank you." Mingo turned back to Israel and placed a hand on the boy's head. "The Great Spirit go with you."

Daniel's son looked up at him, and then impulsively turned and gave him a fierce hug. "You too, Mingo. You be careful."

"As always," he smiled. There was _real_ fear in Israel's voice. Did the child _too_ sense that something waited around the next corner, ready to spring? "You know I always come back."

"Yeah, but you usually got Pa to pull your bacon out of the fire," Israel replied stoically.

Mingo didn't laugh. Silver Fox did. Out loud.

"If the boy's father is at your home, I will tell him he is needed. Bacon burns quickly in a comet's tail," the warrior remarked dryly.

"Good enough!" Israel exclaimed.

Silver Fox waited until the boy had crossed over to him and then, with one arm, lifted and swung Israel onto his back where Daniel's son clambered onto his shoulders. Once he had a firm grip the warrior signaled a farewell, and then began to run.

Mingo watched them until they disappeared, and then he turned and did the same.

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Since she had seen nothing in the way of civilized life in the direction of the shuttlecraft, Uhura headed south from their present location. She was fairly sure she could find her way back but, just in case and as she had before, she left a trail of markers she could easily locate later that would lead her back to Spock. When she left him, the Vulcan had seemed to be sleeping rather than unconscious. Still, she couldn't be sure. She had to get some help for him.

Though she had no idea of what kind of help she might find.

 _Was_ this the present-day Earth? Would she find a substation or wilderness outpost nearby equipped with the latest in technological equipment and hopefully a fully stocked infirmary? Or, rather, stumble onto some eccentric who had chosen to live as their ancestors had two hundred years before, eschewing all of that? There were still 'mountain men' as they called themselves, and they were known to be notoriously suspicious of strangers. One might even take a shot at her with one of those antiquated weapons they called flintlocks! Or maybe, just maybe, they _were_ in the past, and if that was the case – there was little she could do for Spock.

If his own system didn't save him, nothing could.

Uhura pulled the neck of the loose linen dress she had tossed over her uniform close about her throat. It was roughly floor length and woven of a natural flax fiber with only a stripe or two of color for decoration. The gown fastened in the front and acted the part of a cloak well enough. The new day was dawning brilliant but cold. The stormfront of the night before had brought about a change in temperature. Even the budding flowers and bushes looked as if they wished they had a coat.

She wouldn't dare wander _too_ far. The rocks she had heated would only provide Spock with three or four hours of warmth.

Moving briskly, Uhura covered several miles of territory in record time. No more than an hour and a half had passed when she stumbled upon the camp. At first, she hung on its edge, trying to assess the situation. The men who occupied it were dressed simply enough – in buckskin leggings and long colorful shirts known as frocks, if she recalled the costume portion of her ancient art class correctly. Two of them were loading a wagon. Another, about one hundred yards away near a dark tree line, walked back and forth striking a whip against his thigh. She squinted, but could not make out what it was he guarded or chastened. She thought there were other men, weaving in and out of the trees, but couldn't be certain without moving closer – which was something she was not quite ready to do.

Uhura's eyes went to the wagon. It was primitive; made of wood with iron wheels. It's presence seemed to validate her time travel theory. Still, she had no idea how far Earth's _new_ mountain men went to emulate the old. Perhaps they refused to use anything modern. The Bantu woman glanced down at her clothes. Fortunately, the ethnic dress hid her short uniform and legs. If she _was_ in the past, she knew it was not proper for a woman to show skin.

Five minutes of observation revealed nothing alarming. The men seemed intent on their business; _so_ intent they still had not noticed her. Uhura gnawed her lower lip. Time was ticking by and Mr. Spock was growing weaker each minute. Finally, she decided to dare it. Stepping out of the shadows, Uhura cleared her throat and addressed the group of men.

"Sirs. I am in need of assistance," she said as the late afternoon light highlighted her shapely form. "Is there anyway you can help me? I have had to leave a wounded comrade behind and he needs medical – "

Uhura froze. While she spoke, the man at the edge of the trees on the opposite side of the clearing had moved forward. The whip was gone from his hand. In its place was a thick iron chain and, spaced at even intervals along that chain, were a half-dozen ebony-skinned men and women. It took her a moment, but all too soon Uhura realized with horror the reality of their condition, which was underfed, ill-clothed, beaten and bruised.

She had been right about falling through time. They _were_ in the past.

The men and women were _slaves._


	4. Chapter 4

Chapter Four

A lone figure, slender, dark-haired, limping and breathing hard, made its way through the endless series of trees that covered the rolling hills of the Kentucky Territory. Though Spock did not know its name, it took little time to process what he was seeing and to arrive at the conclusion that Lt. Uhura had been correct in postulating the theory that they were in Earth's past. The trees were of the giant variety noted in ancient texts, sometimes referred to as 'virgin', and the flora showed none of the influence of off-world species later integrated into the planet's botany. So far he had observed little of the local fauna, but assumed it would be the same. From what Spock recalled of Earth circa the late seventeenth or early eighteenth century, unarmed, he was certain he had no desire to do so.

Completely out of place in the lush green vastness, Spock of Vulcan halted his forward progress and placed one trembling hand on the rhytidome or bark of a quercus alba tree. He gazed up at its leafy cover, which spanned some twenty point five six meters, and shivered. As a creature born to an arid desert habitat, the mean temperature of the _Enterprise_ was a daily challenge to his constitution. Wounded and suffering from significant blood loss, clothed only in a singlet and trousers, he was more than aware that a night in the North American wilderness might well prove as fatal to him as a blast from a hand phaser on setting number three.

He calculated his chance of survival in such an environment at less than 1 in 25.29. He _had_ afforded himself a slight edge for surviving the kahswan trial as a boy, and for passing Starfleet's survival course with full honors. Still, his system was failing. He doubted he would make it to his goal before losing consciousness. Yet, he had to try. If he had any hope of living, the means to secure and insure it would be found in the remains of the downed shuttlecraft. Even if he was not able to locate the medical kit Dr. McCoy had so _annoyingly_ predicted he would need, there might be other items from his own time that he could utilize, along with local plants, to synthesize something that would keep him alive – at least long enough for the Enterprise to locate them.

Spock drew a deep breath and held it against the nausea and weakness that threatened to return him to the ground. "Illogical," he muttered, correcting himself. There was no reason the Enterprise would think to look for them in Earth's past. Other than the Psi-2000 effect and the Guardian of Forever, there were no ways to travel through time. Correction. No other way known to _Starfleet._ Obviously, he chided himself, since he and Lt. Uhura were here, some other person or species had discovered a way. His mind raced through what he knew. Had they been careless? Had someone become aware of the secret files sealed by the upper echelon of Starfleet, which detailed their forays into the past? The potential for utter chaos and entropy were enormous if they had. No. Such puerile speculation would lead to an end more barren than the deserts of Shikahr. He had been with his captain when the admiralty had taken action. Starfleet was more than aware of the dangers such knowledge presented. Jim had also seen to his own ship, speaking in turn with each member of the crew who had access to vital information. All were loyal and efficient crewmembers. And, of course, only he, Captain Kirk, Dr. McCoy, and a few others knew about what had occurred on the Guardian's world.

Denying another shiver, Spock pushed off the tree and headed north once again. Even though the course he took was entirely logical, he _had_ felt a small pang of conscience upon leaving the cave where Lt. Uhura had sequestered him. He had awakened to find her gone. Assuming that she was seeking medical attention for him, he had – at first – followed in her footsteps. Then it had occurred to him that any help he might reasonably expect to find for his own inhuman physiology on this humanplanet would lie with their own, somewhat damaged, technology. He had thought to leave clues as to the path he had chosen, but had decided against it. Spock was not overly concerned for his own safety, but if the lieutenant followed, then someone else could as well. That might put the communications officer in jeopardy. Assuming she thought logically – which was a considerable assumption in light of the fact that he was dealing with not only a human, but a _human_ female – Lt. Uhura would return to the cave and, finding him gone, await his return.

 _In a pig's eye_ , he heard the absent voice of Leonard McCoy curse in his ear.

The thought of the surgeon directed Spock's attention to his injured leg. Traveling over the rough terrain had caused the wound to reopen as Uhura had predicted, and as he had known it would. He could feel the blood pooling in his regulation boot once again. He had weighed his choices and concluded that the risk was worth it. If he was going to die, he would rather it be on his feet doing _something_ than lying helpless, waiting for death to come.

Spock stopped short at that thought. He closed his eyes and suppressed the emotion that welled up within him, threatening to overwhelm him. He had known this _feeling_ before though he would have denied it.

It was called despair.

His Vulcan mental disciplines must be breaking down. Their loss was a clear indicator of the diminishment of his physical strength and stamina. Spock's keen mind ran through the calculations at lightning speed. He gave himself – at most – another twelve, perhaps thirteen hours in which to find a solution.

 _Perhaps_ ….

The use of that word would have delighted Dr. McCoy.

For a full minute Spock did not move. He stood, motionless, summoning every ounce of strength and mental control at his command. Even if his body _refused_ to continue, it was _not_ the stronger. His mind, his _will_ could overcome the physical. He was a _Vulcan._

Vulcans did _not_ quit.

Jaw tight, hands clenched, Commander Spock, first _and_ science officer of the Starship Enterprise, willed himself to move. Slowly, one foot began to fall in front of the other. Slowly but surely, they carried his fevered frame forward one agonizing step at a time. In this mode Spock continued for he knew not how long, until he noted the grass beneath his feet was no longer green. It was black and scorched. He followed the shuttle's exhaust trail for another 59.2 minutes before stopping. The sun was setting in the west. Hours had passed, but he had reached his goal.

The wreck of the shuttlecraft lay before him, its silver nose half-buried in the gorse and shrub that covered a low hill.

Spock fought the urge to glance around before permitting himself a sigh. He stumbled forward, lunging; catching himself at the last second by placing a hand against the vessel's wounded hull. For a moment he didn't move, grounded as he was in the reality of what _had_ been.

Of what _was_ to be.

Then he heard a deep-throated snarl and whirled just in time to see a massive black animal the size of a Vulcan lamatya cub charging toward him. It leapt and struck Spock in the chest and drove him to the ground, knocking the wind out of his lungs. The animal paused with its paws on his chest to study him. Saliva dripped, pelting his cheek, as it's purple-gray lips peeled back to reveal a set of razor-sharp fangs. Spock held very still. It wasn't hard really. He had no strength left to fight.

The animal, which he believed to be a massive example of Canis Lupus of the Northern American variety, sniffed him. It started at his neck and ended at his wounded leg. As it reached the bloody bandage, the Vulcan felt the wolf stiffen. Then it began to howl – terrified, no doubt, by the first truly _alien_ scent it had ever nosed.

" _Mkateewa!"_ a rough voice called out unexpectedly. " _Nagadan!"_

Spock blinked. The fact that he had the energy to do so both surprised and encouraged him. His depleted mind repeated the words even as it began to analyze them. The reference was ancient. Something to do with the indigenous population of the North American continent. The common term was 'Native American', though long before that the members of various tribes had been referred to, erroneously, as Indians. The language was a root one with several off-shoots. Algonquin, he thought. Specifically Shawnee. Spock almost snarled. No, he didn't _think_. He _knew!_ Various words and phrases passed through his mind, but none seemed to suit his current…situation.

Licking lips dry and cracked with fever, Spock said at last, " _Can-a_. Friend."

" _Can-a?_ " The man replied. " _Match-le-ne-tha-tha!"_

Spock considered the archaic phrasing. His eyes nearly rolled back into his head as he pondered its meaning.

 _My enemy._

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Mingo had been running hard for some time. He was only slightly winded, but had decided as the sun set to rest for a few minutes and to gather strength for the remainder of the journey. He had an intuition that what lay ahead would tax both his body and his spirit. The Cherokee warrior had followed the trail of burnt grass as if it were tracks left by an animal. A slight smile curled his lips at the thought. His mother's people would have said it _was_ – sign left by a celestial panther that had crossed the sky the night before, dragging its fiery tail. The trail had led ever northward, past Chota and toward the lands held by the Shawnee. Several times he had noticed footprints running beside and crossing it. A man and a woman's by the look of them. The prints were strange. Both appeared to be wearing boots, but the imprint of their soles was like nothing he had ever seen. As he sat munching on a piece of jerky, Mingo opened his bandoleer and drew out the strange box. It had made no more sounds. The curious pattern that had wound like a clock spring still moved, but ever more slowly as though it were winding down. He knew now that the entire thing was made of metal. It did not look to have been forged. The box resembled, more than anything he could think of, the sort of intricate and elaborate work commissioned and afforded only by those extremely well off. If it belonged to whoever had left the boot prints, they must be counted among kings.

Mingo had first followed the boot prints to a sheltered cave, but had found only more puzzles there. A nest of cloth had been created in one corner – strange colorful cloth that rivaled anything his people could have made using beads and paint. The cloth was soaked through in places with what looked like blood. The dried substance had been more black than brown, but he could think of nothing else it might have been. One of the strangers was wounded. He believed it to be the man. Both coming and going, the man's stride was uneven and, on the way to the cave, it appeared the woman had been supporting him. From the look of the tracks leading out of the cave mouth and into the wilderness, the woman had left first, heading south. The wounded man had followed shortly after, but had gone north instead.

Mingo had decided to follow the man. If the blood was his, the stranger would be in dire need of assistance soon.

If he was not already dead.

The man's trail was clear and easy to follow. It seemed the stranger gave no thought to hiding his steps or the way he had taken. Whoever it was, he followed the burning of the earth even as Mingo did. The Cherokee warrior, trained in such things, judged the man to be no more than a quarter of an hour ahead of him.

It was time to move on.

Returning the remainder of the meat to his kit, Mingo knelt briefly, offering thanks, and then rose to his feet and began to run.

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

" _Mkateewa!"_ the voice ordered once more. " _Nagadan!"_

The first word was a color. _Black,_ Spock thought. The second a command. Halt? Go? No. _Leave_. The wolf hesitated, growling its displeasure at doing so with his victim's throat intact, but finally moved off obedient to its master's command. The absence of the animal's bulky shape in Spock's line of sight revealed the one who had spoken. The native was tall and powerfully built, though not young. He was attired – not surprisingly – in a mixture of native and European dress. Red paint stained the shoulders of his linen trade shirt and decorated his shaven head, which sported only a single lock of black hair. The affectation was known as a scalplock, if he remembered correctly. Below the shirt and royal blue vest a portion of a painted breechcloth showed, worn over buckskin pants. The footwear, Spock thought, was known as swamp boots.

"Fascinating," the Vulcan breathed in spite of himself.

In a second the man was on him and had the tip of his knife pressed against his jugular. " _What_ are you?" the native breathed in a tone that equally mixed fear and awe.

So the man spoke standard American English, albeit with a thick accent. Most likely an indication that he had been schooled by white men either in America, or across the sea in Europe.

"My name is Spock," the Vulcan replied matter-of-factly. There was no logic to creating a fantasy, and he certainly could not pretend to pass as a human. Already the native's keen eyes had fastened on his ears, taking in their alien shape. What, he wondered, did the native _think_ he was? "I am a man, like you – "

"You are not like me. You are not a man, but a demon," the native pronounced, his voice hushed.

Old Earth reference identified in many cultures, but noted most commonly in the book known as the Bible that was said to be God's word given to men. Another confirmation, he noted, that the man was educated and not an ordinary 'savage'.

"I am not –" Spock began. He halted as the knife's point nicked his skin. He had been accused of a similar relationship with the biblical Lucifer before. In his current state, he found the man's irrational fear not only irritating, but tiring. The Vulcan considered the native leaning over him. They were of a like height, but the other man outweighed him by a good twenty pounds and was unusually strong. His age appeared to be somewhere between forty and fifty. To survive in this rank wilderness to that age, the native had to know how to defend himself. Still, Spock doubted the man's training had equipped him to deal with Starfleet defensive tactics or, if he could manage it, to shake off a Vulcan nerve pinch.

Spock licked his lips again. The native had not moved to harm him, but stared at him with open interest. The Vulcan's mind was working slowly, he knew that. It took several seconds to perceive that the title he had been branded with might actually be employed to his advantage – though it would necessitate prevarication.

Well, as Doctor McCoy would have put it. _When in Rome_ ….

"You are correct. I am not human," Spock replied, allowing a shade of annoyance to enter his voice – demons, he knew from study, were notoriously arrogant and self-assured. "Do you think a simple knife can harm me, or _you_ stop me if I choose to escape?"

The native's eyes darted to the weapon. He did not move it, but the hand that held the blade began to shake. "Why do you not escape then?"

"Perhaps," Spock answered, swallowing, "perhaps I have a use for _you_. Have you considered that it is I who hold _you_ here?"

The last rays of the sun were fading in the western sky. As the night encroached, the orb sent gilded fingers through the trees, illuminating the land. One struck the two men. It glinted off the native's blade, revealing – in its true nature – the color of the blood that stained it. Spock's attacker gasped and pulled back. The pressure on the Vulcan's jugular lessened imperceptibly, but it was enough. He brought his knee up and – utilizing a tactic he had learned from Jim Kirk known as 'street fighting – took the man in the crotch. Then, ignoring the excruciating pain it caused to his injured ribs, Spock crunched his lean torso up and rolled over until he straddled the man. Once in position, the breathless Vulcan used his shaking hand to apply a nerve pinch, and then watched the native fall unconscious to the earth.

Only to remember he had the native's _pet_ to contend with.

The animal charged without warning, taking Spock in the chest again and knocking him backward. As its teeth snapped close to his cheek and its fetid breath assaulted his already heavily taxed senses, the Vulcan reached for the blade where the native had dropped it in the grass. With all the strength he had remaining, Spock drove it deep into the animal's side. Moments later, the creature collapsed on top of him, pinning him to the ground.

Panting, fighting for consciousness, Spock closed his eyes. For a moment he remained quite still, fighting to master even the juvenile mental disciplines he had learned in his youth. Failing that, he drew on the savage strength bequeathed him by his mother _and_ father's warrior ancestors, and lifted the animal's carcass and shoved it away. Several minutes passed before he was able to climb to his knees and then, shakily, to stand. His black singlet was stained now not only with his own blood, but with the animal's. Spock shook the wolf to make certain it was dead, and then glanced at the quiescent form of its master, noting with interest the objects the man wore on his belt. Slightly puzzled, the Vulcan crouched at his side. Along with the standard weapons one would expect among the indigenous population of such a region – knives, tomahawks and an ax – were several objects that he deduced to be of a sacred nature. These included an ornamented rattle and a carved wand tipped with a set of massive bear claws. Their presence seemed to indicate that his attacker was a shaman or medicine man. Spock frowned as he noted another object, partially hidden by the decorative beads and leather thongs that dangled from the rattle. He paused, uncertain in his weakened state that he had seen what he _thought_ he had.

Something on the shaman's belt had _blinked!_

Curious, Spock reached out to move the rattle aside. He had to ascertain what he had seen. Nothing could be left to chance when the time stream was so –

The Vulcan realized, a second too late, that the native had already awakened and been playing dead, seeking to draw him in. He must have missed with the nerve pinch or been too weak to make it effectual. Before Spock could react, the shaman caught his wrist and twisted it with breaking force, driving him to the ground.

This time it was the razor-sharp bear claws topping the wooden wand that tore into his throat.

"Rain of Stars thought to use you, demon, but I see the words of the white man's God are right. You would use him instead. And so now you _die!"_

Spock braced himself for the end. He had used every ounce of strength he had. There was nothing left with which to fight. Bleeding to death from a mauled throat would not be a quick death, but it _would_ be death.

He was not afraid.

A moment later there was an unexpected whistling sound, and then something struck the trunk of the tree just above the Vulcan's head. The shaman stiffened and cursed in his own tongue even as Spock realized what it was – a primitive wooden shaft with a leather-lashed stone projectile point. As he realized what was happening, a second arrow winged past them – this time slicing the air less than an inch beyond the cheek of his attacker. It struck the side of the shuttlecraft with a metallic _thunk_.

"Drop the knife, Unemake!" a strong voice commanded. "Drop it, or the next one will take the feathers from your hair. Or, if my arm grows weary, your ear from your _head_."

This native voice was different; cultured and more refined, with a hint of a foreign accent. England, perhaps. Yes. London more precisely. Spock attempted to look, but the bear claws stopped him as they bit deeper into his flesh.

"You do not know who you seek to save, Cherokee!" the shaman shouted. "He is a demon from Sheol. He will be your doom!"

"Then release him to me. I will take my chances."

"No!"

Another arrow flew past, this time clipping the shaman's shoulder. Spock felt Unemake flinch, but the shaman's hand did not budge.

"The next one will be through the heart, Unemake. Be reasonable – "

Even as the newcomer fell silent, Spock became aware of a growing heat at his back. For all that it felt most welcome in the chill air, the Vulcan knew instantly what it meant. The projectile points of the current period were made of flint. Flint struck against steel was the modus operandi for starting fires and had been for centuries on Earth. The action produced sparks that were used to ignite tinder. Only a moment ago the arrowhead had hit the shuttle's metal hull. The resultant spark had ignited the desiccated plant life around them –

And was only seconds away from igniting the shuttlecraft's spilled fuel.


	5. Chapter 5

Chapter Five

Leonard McCoy's ears still stung from the verbal assault James Kirk launched at him upon awakening in the sickbay. The sobriety drug had taken hold of Kirk's system like a Mellanoid slime worm and laid him flat on his back for three full hours. And while McCoy knew his captain needed every one of those one hundred and eighty minutes to regain his strength in order to deal efficiently with the present crisis, _each_ one of those passing minutes had left Spock, Deevers, and Uhura adrift in a very real and very dangerous unknown. Knowing what Jim Kirk's wishes would have been, McCoy had exercised his medical authority and made a judgment call. Lying, he had told the ship's acting first officer, Lt. DeSalle that – before he had gone under – the captain had issued an order that they begin the search.

At this moment the results of that search were being relayed to a still _very_ irate James Tiberius Kirk in the ship's briefing room number two. As he listened to DeSalle, Kirk's hazel eyes flicked toward his surgeon. McCoy grimaced and shifted uncomfortably in his seat as he met the blond man's censuring stare. They had better find that missing shuttlecraft quickly. Any more looks like that and he was going to end up needing the resuscitation equipment!

"Let me understand this," Kirk said, holding up a hand to stop DeSalle's somewhat Spocklike recitation of known facts. "While I was… _indisposed_ …." There was another one of those looks. "…you requested data from the satellites orbiting Earth concerning the area of space in which the shuttlecraft disappeared?"

"And from the moon bases as well," DeSalle replied. "We correlated the data and extrapolated the hypothesis that I have just presented to you. Sir."

This time it was Kirk who did the Spockian imitation as one honey-colored eyebrow winged toward the tousled hair brushing his forehead. "You think the shuttlecraft fell through time?"

"More… _into_ time, sir." DeSalle swallowed. It was obvious the usually stoic, fully grounded navigator felt somewhat out of his league.

"Explain."

"I'd really like to, sir." DeSalle paused to wet his lips. Kirk's hazel eyes had not aimed a look meant to kill at the young man, but the phaser was _definitely_ set on level two. "Sir, this is beyond anything any of us have ever seen. The only way I can describe it is that it seems some sort of a _tube_ opened in space and the shuttle, accidentally finding itself on a collision course, slid into it and…into another time."

"How do you know they entered another time?" McCoy asked quietly, daring at last to speak. "How do you know the craft didn't simply…." His eyes shot to Kirk. "Disintegrate once they hit the anomaly."

He saw it in that hazel stare. Kirk had been _way_ ahead of him. "Any debris?"

"No, sir," the navigator answered, obviously relieved. "Nothing has been found. Not one nut. Not one bolt. It's as if the _Columbus_ simply disappeared."

"Were there any communications as they entered the anomaly?"

DeSalle shook his head. "No. There's been nothing since Mr. Spock hailed us to say the craft had cleared the bay. It was only a half hour flight at most, sir."

A half hour, McCoy thought. It seemed Spock had managed to beat his own record for how quickly he could get into trouble.

Kirk sat with his hands clenched; a gesture McCoy recognized as one that meant he was barely maintaining control. "Summarize."

DeSalle straightened in his chair. "The shuttlecraft _Columbus_ , with a three man crew comprised of First Officer Spock, Lieutenants Deevers and Uhura, requested permission and departed the USS Enterprise docking bay at eighteen-hundred hours. Mr. Spock signaled they were clear three minutes after departure and then, the shuttle disappeared. The anomaly is like nothing seen before, though one scientist at Starfleet suggested the readings are similar in kind to those recorded by the Enterprise when they were in Sector 90.4." DeSalle paused. He looked at Kirk expectantly. "I attempted to reference the information concerning that sector, sir, but it was classified and restricted."

McCoy had felt the same jolt as the captain when he heard the coordinates. That was the sector of space occupied by the Guardian of Forever.

Kirk shot McCoy a glance and then replied, " _I_ have authorized access, Lieutenant." In answer to the question in the acting science officer's eyes, he added, "The information is on a need-to-know basis. If it becomes pertinent to the current situation, then I will have to decide whether or not to risk Starfleet's ire." Kirk leaned his chin on his hand. "Continue summation."

DeSalle did. "It appears that the window of time during which the anomaly operated was only a few minutes. The readings are confused and hard to pin down, but it winked into existence and winked out. There were residual readings – something like aftershocks – for approximately one Earth standard hour. Then it was gone as if it had never been." The navigator shook his head. "Those are the facts, sir," he ended apologetically.

"Speculation?"

"Not _enough_ facts, sir. There is nothing to compare the phenomenon to. No other events of a similar type…at least on record."

DeSalle left it hanging in the air. Except this mysterious 90.4 reference.

Kirk nodded. After a moment he said, "Thank you, Mr. DeSalle. You may return to your post." He looked at the other crewmembers around the table, which included a good portion of the standard bridge compliment. "The same goes for the rest of you. DeSalle, chart and execute a course back to Earth – at Warp 10 if necessary. I want to know what happened to my people!"

"Sir?" DeSalle asked. "What about the current mission and the survey team?"

"They'll be going back with us. We still don't know what happened in engineering. I haven't forgotten about that in the light of this new…development" Kirk looked at the team around the table. "I know none of us have. No one leaves this ship until I find out what happened and _why_ those men in engineering died." The captain glanced at the chronometer. "There will be a briefing concerning _that_ in one hour. Until that time… dismissed!"

With nods and quiet 'aye aye, sirs' those in the briefing room filed out – with the exception of the captain and Leonard McCoy.

"Jim," McCoy said, "I know that look. You can't possibly blame yourself for what happened to the shuttle. Spock and Uhura were traveling to Earth, for goodness sake! You had no reason to suspect anything might go wrong."

"Damn it, Bones! I could have waited. This assignment we're on is a _milk_ run. If I had waited, we would have known immediately that they went missing and been there to observe the anomaly as it happened." Kirk sighed and rubbed his eyes. "And who knows, maybe this other disaster could have been averted to."

"You think they're tied together?"

His friend looked at him. "No, not really," he admitted grimly.

"Well, then, this is about the shuttle, isn't it? You know Spock's more than competent…." The doctor paused. "Don't tell him that I said that, but he is. _You_ know it. _I_ know it. If anything could have been done to avoid… _whatever_ happened, he would have done it." McCoy fell silent for a time. "Do you really think they went back in time? Did DeSalle have any idea where or _when_ they might have ended?" McCoy had come to the briefing a few minutes late and so not heard the acting science officer's complete report. He shuddered with the memory of their last trip into time together – the one involving the restricted Guardian – when his captain had been forced to allow a woman he had come to love to die.

Kirk shook his head. His eyes reflected that fear as well. "They were headed for the United States of Africa. A projection of the shuttle's speed and trajectory at the moment of disappearance indicates it most likely would have landed somewhere on the North American continent instead."

"Somewhere?"

Kirk sighed and leaned his head in his hands. "Nothing more specific, Bones."

McCoy watched his captain for several seconds, and then the mediscanner was in his hand and whirling. The conscientious surgeon braced himself for the expected explosion.

"Bones, put that _damn_ thing away! I'm fine."

"You're stress levels don't say you are _fine._ "

"Well, I am! Consider that piece of equipment faulty," Jim snapped. Then he relented with a smile. "And, Bones, consider that an _order_."

McCoy read the instrument, then he snapped it off. With a nod of his head, he said simply, "I know, I'm worried about Spock and Uhura too."

Kirk rose to his feet. "I'll be on the bridge," he said, and marched from the room.

Leonard McCoy remained behind in the briefing room, lost in his thoughts. It amazed him to this _day_ how the Vulcan had gotten under his skin. For the first few months of their five year mission, he had all but despised the cold, acerbic green-blooded bastard. But that was due to a medical error in judgement. A surgeon never _truly_ knew a patient until he went beneath the skin; beneath the surface. He had first seen the great wall of Vulcan control crack when Spock had connected mentally to Simon Van Gelder. Spock had had to let his guard down to do so, and something of the inner man had been revealed. Then, of course, there had been the trip to Omicron Ceti III and Leila Kalomi…. McCoy could think of at least a dozen other times that the Vulcan had revealed something of his human side, however unwilling – or _unwittingly._ In the end, McCoy's animosity had turned to curiosity, and then ripened into respect. And now – though it was _damned_ hard to admit it – he considered Spock a genuine friend.

Maybe pigs _could_ fly after all!

McCoy was chuckling to himself when he suddenly became aware of feeling uncomfortable; as if he were being watched. He frowned, glanced around the room, and shook it off. His fingers went to the bridge of his nose and he pinched hard, and then rubbed his forehead. If he ran the mediscanner over himself he was sure _his_ stress levels would rival, if not _outpace_ Jim Kirk's. It was so damned unfair. Even when they got back to Earth, what could they do? There was nothing.

Nothing at all but prepare to mourn.

"Doctor McCoy." A soft voice spoke from somewhere close behind him. "Doctor Leonard McCoy?"

He pivoted swiftly and peered into the shadows that cloaked the rear portion of the room. The automatic lights had softened with the other crewmember's departure and his motionless state. They sprang to life again even as McCoy did.

"Who is it? What?" he asked as he leapt up.

For a split second – almost like one of those visions a person has at twilight when they think they see a black cat darting across their path or the face of some ghostlike creature at the window – he saw someone. It was a wraith-thin form, seemingly female, though he wasn't sure just _how_ he knew that. Pale. Biped, but definitely alien.

And then it was gone.

McCoy crossed to where he had seen it. There was nothing there, of course. Just as he decided he had better run that scan of his cortisol levels, he heard the soft voice again. This time, coming from near the door.

"I would speak with you, Leonard McCoy. In your quarters."

By the time he turned, there was nothing to see but empty space.

McCoy hesitated for a moment, wondering if this was the first sign that he was going space happy. Then he shrugged. If he was, _he'd_ have to be the one to diagnose it and he could just pretend it didn't exist.

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Daniel Boone's long lanky form was slung in the tall chair facing his hearth. He and Tupper had made their run to New Salem in record time. He had been looking forward to the big grin on Rebecca's face when he snuck up behind her and wrapped his arms about her waist and gave her a squeeze. Instead, when he made his appearance, his red-headed wife had burst into tears. Following close behind him, his old friend Tupper had tipped his cap and made himself scarce. Dan had held his wife for a minute or two, listening to her incoherent snuffling, and then taken her and sat her down in her rocking chair and waited while she wiped her eyes and blew her nose. Then he had asked her to tell him what was wrong.

Outside the cabin windows the light was dying. He and Tupper had come back near supper time. Becky told him, in halting words, that Israel and Mingo had been due back nearly twenty-four hours before, and she had not heard one word from them. They had simply disappeared. Dan hadn't let her know it, but her words struck fear in his heart. His wife didn't know what _he_ knew. It was another reason he and Tupper had come home early.

The Shawnee were rumored to be on the warpath.

They had tangled with the Shawnee before. A lot of times. They were used to the ones they knew, but there were a new pair in the area now who promised trouble; Unemake, a warrior turned medicine man, and the new war chief he served who went by the name Rain of Stars. The Shawnee war chief already had a reputation for being ruthless. Unemake was his shadow. Both were reputed to be English educated, though as far as Dan knew, the medicine man was full-blooded. Rumor said Rain of Stars was not. That he was 'different'. Dan didn't know exactly what to make of that. The newcomer could be a renegade from another tribe, say a Creek leading the Shawnee, or maybe he was of mixed parentage.

After all, there were quite a few who said Mingo was 'different' too.

He and Tupper had been on their way home when they had run into some soldiers who told them about the Shawnee and their plans. Dan had intended to surprise Becky, sweep her off her feet, and then pack her and the two young'uns up and deposit them inside the fort where they would be safe. Then he was going to go looking for Mingo. It was his hope that they could do some scouting and quickly confirm or deny what the soldiers said. Jemima, he found, was already in the fort, staying with a friend's family for a few days. Israel, as Becky told him, was with Mingo.

From what his wife said, the pair had been headed toward Shawnee territory.

"Dan? What are we going to do?" Becky asked him, her voice trembling. She was seated in the chair opposite him; her hands knitted together nervously in her lap.

He shifted and met her frightened gaze. "You're goin' to the fort."

"Dan, no!"

"Rebecca, yes." His tone was soft, but firm. "I can't be worryin' about Is'rul and you at one and the same time. Not and keep my wits about me." He watched his wife gnaw her lip. They had had this conversation many, _many_ times before. A slight quirk lifted one corner of the frontiersman's mouth. Usually _she_ won.

But not tonight.

"There are times…" Becky began, halted, and went on. "There are times that I _loathe_ being a woman! I feel so…helpless."

Dan rose from his chair and went to put his arm around her shoulders. After planting a kiss on her copper hair, he said, "Mrs. Boone, you are anythin' _but._ It ain't such a big thing to knock heads together, or let bullets fly. Action takes a man's mind off his worries." He brushed her cheek with his fingers. "A woman's courage is the _quiet_ kind; long and endurin'." Dan laughed. "Most men'd break under the trouble a woman can take faster than you could say _Jack Robinson_."

"I can say it pretty fast," she replied, a slight grin forming in spite of her mother's fears. Becky looked up at him and asked earnestly, "Do you think Israel is all right?"

"He's with Mingo, Becky. Ain't no man I trust more. You know that."

"I know, Dan, but Mingo has a way of…." She winced, not wanting to appear insulting.

"Of gettin' into trouble?" Dan laughed. "Why, don't you know? That's only when he's with me."

"Dan – " His wife paused. It seemed as if she was considering what she had been about to say. But that wasn't it. Becky had heard something.

"Dan, someone is outside."

He glanced toward the door. "It's most likely Tupper returnin'."

She shook her head. "I hear _two_ voices."

As Dan turned, the door opened and a Cherokee warrior stepped across the threshold. The man looked winded and weary. His clothes were mud-flecked and there were fresh knife cuts healing on his bare arms. It took the frontiersman a moment, but then he recognized him. He was a friend of Mingo's.

"Silver Fox? What's happened – "

The native stated without preamble. "I have news of your son, and of Cara-Mingo. The son of Talota is in grave danger."

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Leonard McCoy hesitated outside the door to his quarters, puzzled. How the heck was he to _know_ if he was going space happy? If he opened the door and saw the strange woman, how could he tell if she was really _real?_ Of course, he could run his mediscanner over her, but if he was loopy then wouldn't he just _imagine_ the readings were the ones he wanted?

Spock would have loved a chance to illuminate him on that point. Of course, the Vulcan would have politely told him he already _knew_ the answer: McCoy had been loopy all along.

The surgeon sighed. There were about three shots of brandy left. He was going to down them all and go to bed.

Making up his mind, McCoy moved forward and the automatic doors whooshed open as they recognized him. He stepped into the room and stopped, looking around. When he saw nothing, he decided Spock would have been right.

Maybe he'd be saner by the time the next simulated day dawned on the starship.

Crossing to the unit that served as a liquor cabinet, the weary surgeon removed the brandy bottle and placed it on the table where he did his out of office work. Then he walked into the bathroom and shed his clothes. A brief sonic shower awakened him as well as alleviating his morose feelings. He decided, as he drew on a soft, deep blue robe and a loose pair of pants, that after all he had enough energy to recheck the day's medical logs before getting some shut eye. Sitting down at the computer console, McCoy keyed on the screen and began to scan the entries. As he did, he lifted one hand to his neck and began to massage it. _Stress,_ was right. He could feel it beneath his fingers, contracting the muscles under his skin. He paused to roll his head and stretch his neck, and was shocked when, suddenly, other fingers took up where his had left off.

Jumping out of his seat – and nearly out of his skin – Leonard McCoy whirled to find the strange alien woman. She stepped back and permitted him to assess her.

She was thin. _Very_ thin. If she'd turned sideways, you might have lost her. Her forehead was elongated and slightly bony, like someone with perhaps one-eighth Klingon in them, but he didn't get a sense that she _was_ Klingon. The hair that topped her forehead and hung in long straight sheets to her narrow shoulders was white. _Pure_ white. Likewise, her skin had very little pigmentation. In some ways, she reminded him of what had once been called an _albino_. But her eyes were gray, not red, and unlike albinos who often paid for their condition with a sort of weakness, he sensed in her a great strength. The strength of years – if not _eons_ – of maturity and wisdom.

"You…you're _real_ ," he stammered.

"Yes," was all she said.

"How did you get here? How did you get past the ship's security? What do you want? What do you want with _me?_ "

She smiled at his barrage of questions. "I am. And, I am not. Your ship cannot sense what does not exist."

"Pardon me, ma'am?" he asked, his southern drawl intensifying. "You said you were _real_."

"I was. I will _be_."

McCoy blinked. He really should alert the captain.

"James Kirk must not know yet," the woman warned.

"Did you read my mind?"

The smile deepened. More enigmatic. "In a way. But no."

She seemed to take a perverse pleasure in being obtuse. "Do you know how to give a straight answer?" he snarled.

"I have."

McCoy rolled his eyes. "Why shouldn't I tell Jim?"

"He would stop you."

"Stop me from what?"

"You are tied to the time where they are. You are necessary for its survival and theirs."

A shiver ran along McCoy's spine. Did she mean Spock and the others? "Theirs?"

"Your friends."

"What do you know about that?" More than ever he thought he should inform the captain. But something restrained him. Something in her manner; in what she was _._

 _Whatever_ that was.

"Your friends have inadvertently become entangled in a war," she replied. "It is not a war such as you know. There are no casualties – and there are _billions_."

"I don't understand."

"You cannot. You _may_ not. That is why your people are dying."

"What?" He was growing angry. "Spock and Uhura…."

"No. Those in engineering. You must have someone guard Mr. Scott. Another attempt will be made. And there _will_ be others. Your captain. Others of this crew who know what must not be known." The woman paused and then she looked directly into his eyes. The action was unbalancing. " _You_."

"Me? What do I know that I 'must not'."

"Psi-2000," she answered, her voice a harsh whisper, "Gary Seven. Captain Christopher…. Sector 90.4."

It took a second. "Time travel?" What she implied took his breath. "A war? Where people travel through time?" The implications were staggering; the damage that could be done, incalculable.

"My people have the ability to move through time by thought. As a people we are dedicated to non-interference. But there are certain _rogue_ elements." Her face showed her disgust. "They believe, as I think your people say, that the _end_ justifies the means."

"To get rid of those of us who know time travel _is_ possible, is that what you are saying?" The woman nodded, but he could tell there was more. "Does this have to do with whatever Spock and Uhura stumbled into? With where they have gone?"

"Two hundred and more years into your past. It is a pivotal moment, doctor. Time tubes are used to transport soldiers to the surface. Mercenaries from other planets, beings who are solid matter like you, who cannot move by thought are utilized." The alien paused. "They must be stopped."

He nodded, and then he realized what she meant. "What? By me? I'm a doctor, not a general…."

"You are a healer."

"Yes, but what good would that do? Sure, I can apply tourniquets and wrap linens as well as the next man, but, stop a war?"

"Do you know where your friends are, doctor?"

"Hell, no! If I did, I would – "

"You would what? You cannot go to them." She stepped closer. "Not without my help, or the help of one of my kind."

He stared at her hard. "If you can create another anomaly, then take the ship through…."

"Their agents are already _on_ this ship. That is why your friends are in danger."

McCoy moved to his chair and sat down heavily in it. "All right. But I asked you before… _why me?_ "

She came over and knelt beside him. The fingers that touched his knee were nearly translucent, as though – like she said – she was there, but not _there_. "I ask again, do you know where your friends are?"

He shook his head wearily. "No. Will you tell me?"

"The land has many names. The indigenous people call it _ken-tah-ten,_ or the land of tomorrow." She smiled, seeming to deem that appropriate.

 _Ken-tah-ten_. He'd learned that word at his granddaddy's knee. Though Georgia born and bred, the McCoy's root went back to that place. The words for it was Iroquoian.

"Kentucky."

"It's memory is in your bones. Once you are there, you will know what to do."

Leonard McCoy looked at the enigma kneeling beside him. For a moment, he wondered if time-traveling aliens understood the nature of a pun. No, he didn't think they did.

"I should tell the captain," he protested meekly.

"Then their agents too will know, and your friends will die."

What would it do to Jim, he wondered, to find that he _too_ was missing? Oh well, it would be up to Chapel now to deal with the captain's guilt and elevated blood pressure.

With resignation, he sighed, "When do we go?"

The alien smiled.

" _Now."_


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter Six

The man's face was tanned so dark from the sun it might have belonged to one of her own race, but for the blue eyes it held and the way they looked at her with both lascivious interest and ignorant disgust. The slaver's hair was the color of wheat matured too long in the sun; the hands that held the iron chain, gnarled from years of work and, no doubt, of wielding the whip that dangled from his bony hip. Lieutenant Nyota Uhura of the Starship Enterprise felt her breath catch as an unexpected wave of pure hatred for this human being and his fellows swept over her. She reminded herself to be rational. She was prejudging, just as she believed _them_ to be prejudiced.

That wasn't what the future had taught her, now was it?

But then there was the indisputable testimony of the mute black men and women who were linked by that chain. Mean and massive, the iron links ran through a series of thick metal rings connected to the heavy collars that encircled their necks. The enslaved creatures looked at her, their expressions varied. Some of the battered and bruised faces held pity, others resignation; while still others had grown too weary to care who or what she was. One near the end, a young woman who appeared to be nineteen at most, met the star traveler's gaze with her head held high and a fire in her rich brown eyes. Uhura did not flinch, but returned the look. She wished she could have assured the lovely young woman that somehow – no matter what these men did – she would see them free. But she couldn't, and for more than one reason: She was alone _and_ unarmed.

Plus, she didn't know if freeing them would alter the future from which she had come.

"What have we here?" one of the slavers drawled. His words were slurred, as if he had been imbibing, and followed by a low whistle. "Ain't she a sight?" This one wasn't the man with the chain, but the slaver that was closest to her. He was older; his gnarled face grizzled and scarred from one too many fights. Meeting her steady gaze, he flashed a toothless grin that held more malice than merriment. "She kin to you, Venus?" he asked as he turned and looked directly at the young woman Uhura had noticed.

Venus snarled and shouted something at him, the meaning of which it was hard to miss. Her tirade was cut short when another of the men backhanded the young woman into silence. Uhura drew a breath and held it, startled.

The woman had answered in a dialect of Swahili.

The older slaver laughed as he wiped spittle from his hand onto the leg of his worn brown breeches. "Back in Africa that one was a princess, or so she says." He turned his attention to Uhura. "She don't hold a candle to you." His vacant grin widened with lascivious glee. "Looks like we got ourselves a _queen_ , boys."

"Bet she'll fetch a pretty penny," one of the younger slavers said. "She's quite a looker, Sol. Educated too."

"Seems so," Sol agreed as he walked toward her. "Though it seems her master don't know nothing about slaves. Teachin' 'em to read and write is ag'in the law. Where's your master, _regina?_ We done need to teach him how to keep his niggers in place, or else other folks will be gettin' ideas."

"Ain't nothin' worse than an uppity nigger," the younger man agreed with a sad shake of his head.

Uhura felt her jaw tighten. She would _beg_ to differ.

As Sol drew near, the Enterprise's communications officer took a step back. "Stay where you are," Uhura commanded as her fingers dropped reflexively to brush the pouch where she kept her phaser, hidden now beneath her linen gown. Almost as quickly as they did, she jerked them away. What an idiot! She couldn't use the high-tech weapon in this time, _or_ let these men know that she carried one of such destructive capabilities.

"Or _what?_ What'cha gonna do, Queenie?" As the toothless man moved toward her, two of his cronies flanked him. One held a set of irons; the other, something that looked to be a thick net with weights worked into its ends. "You think a pretty little thing like you is gonna stop us? You think you can outrun us? Or fight us?" Sol snorted and spit, and then growled with menace, " _Think again_."

Uhura wished now that she didn't have the cloaklike dress on. Its abundant fabric hampered her legs and might prevent her from landing a well-placed kick on the slaver's scruffy chin. It could even cause her to fall if she tried to flee. And yet, what choice did she have? If these men took her, she had no way of knowing where they would transport her to. Even if she managed to get away at a later date, there was no guaranteeing she could find her way back to wherever she was – and that meant she might be trapped in the past _forever_. Uhura swallowed over a growing fear. And then there was Spock. The ship's Vulcan science officer might well bleed to death in her absence. No one else knew where they were. There was no way to know if help would come. Her capture would almost certainly mean Spock's death.

Somehow, she _had_ to get away!

The irons clanked as Sol took them in his scarred hands. "Got some pretty bracelets for you, Queenie. Don't you want to try them on?" The man's hairy upper lip curled in an appreciative sneer. His words dripped with libidinous expectation. "I'll let you know what they _cost_ later tonight."

Uhura held her ground. The only thing she did was change her posture, which abruptly became open and inviting. She tilted her head to one side and reached down to grasp the fabric of her gown. Pulling it up, she revealed one deep brown and _extremely_ shapely leg. With a flirtatious smile, the star traveler pitched her voice so it was husky and purred, "I think I'd like that, Sol. But I warn you, I don't come _cheap_."

The man gaped at her exposed skin. A second later, Sol glanced back at his fellows. His look was answered with a chorus of expectant whoops and whistles. He turned back – just in time to have the toe of Uhura's regulation-issued Starfleet boot knock out his remaining teeth.

"I told you the price was high!" she snarled. After regaining her balance, she whirled, skirts in hand, intending to run.

Unfortunately the way behind her was not clear. The Bantu woman halted, breathing heavily as she realized the silent presence had been there all along. A very tall, composed and rather handsome black man blocked her path. He was dressed like the slavers, though his choice of garments indicated a wealth greatly in excess of theirs. The man's linen shirt was cut of a fine cloth and embroidered at the collar and cuffs with white-work flowers. His deep blue frock coat was new; the nut-brown breeches unstained. There were silver buckles on his shoes.

"Who are…" Uhura began. She never finished the sentence. As the words formed on her lips, the newcomer reached out and struck her jaw with the palm of his hand, snapping her head back. Stunned, she managed to keep her feet for a count of two, and then fell to the ground barely conscious.

As she struggled to remain alert, Uhura heard the tall black man remark coolly, "Bind her well, Solomon Winters, and handle her carefully.

"You know I do not accept damaged merchandise."

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

The fire was growing ever more intense. Spock could feel the heat searing his skin through the thin fabric of his black singlet. The rising smoke choked him. Logic dictated the fact that the forest about him appeared to be spinning out of control was a clear indicator that a loss of consciousness was moments, if not _seconds_ away. Unemake still held the razor sharp bear claws to his throat, but they had ceased their inward progress. The shaman's attention was divided; his wide black eyes shifting constantly from the mounting flames to the tall, bronzed man who stood at the edge of the burning area, bow in hand. Even in the midst of this chaos, even _knowing_ he was facing almost certain death, the Vulcan's analytical mind would not rest. Involuntarily it ticked off a set of statistics: Mingo, the newcomer with the bow, was as tall as he, or perhaps an inch taller. He was dressed as a native, but appeared to be of mixed heritage. His Caucasian blood showed in the shape of his face, but most notably in the way he held and handled himself. The newcomer's manner of speech was elegant, indicative not only of advanced schooling, but of a high level of social breeding. He was deeply tanned and well-muscled and perhaps thirty-five years of age, but was neither scarred nor particularly weather-beaten as would have been expected of an indigenous native living in the wild. Everything about the bowman suggested a close association with the transplanted European culture currently in the process of claiming the area. That fact, Spock noted, might come in useful at a later date – should he live to act on the knowledge.

The Vulcan shuddered as fever and fatigue threatened to claim him.

"Move away!" Mingo shifted his position and the arrow he held, citing along his arm. "Release your prisoner!"

"No!" the other native shouted. Unemake shifted so he could reassert pressure on the bear claws. He forced them into Spock's neck. "The demon will die!"

It was what the Vulcan had been waiting for. In order to drive the wand into his flesh, Unemake had been forced to shift his weight. As he did, Spock summoned strength from somewhere _beyond_ the logic that he had none. Using his long, lean body as a counterweight, he thrust the shaman back and away. It was only a matter of inches, but it was enough. Spock heard the whistle of an missile loosed. Unemake grunted as Mingo's arrow took him in the upper shoulder; its projectile point driven so hard it exited through the tough hide of both the native himself and his painted leather vest.

Unemake dropped the wand as he staggered to his feet. He lingered only long enough to shout, "You should have killed me, Cara-Mingo. You will live to regret that you did not!"

Mingo shook his head slowly as he prepared another arrow. "I would never regret making the choice of life over death." A brilliant smile – something like that of a Denebian Hellcat readying to pounce – lit his bronzed face. "And yet…. While I am at heart a peaceful man, I am also tired, and my fingers though well-trained might… just…slip if you tarry any longer. Now, go, Unemake. Return to your people!"

The shaman cast one last long _hateful_ glance at Spock and then stumbled away into the rising darkness.

Spock wet his lips and glanced about. All around them the forest was ablaze. Flames licked the bases of the trees and reached for their protective canopy of leaves as brilliant tongues of orange, ochre and crimson crept across the already charred forest floor. The Vulcan frowned. His head was whirling. He found it impossible to estimate how much time remained before the shuttlecraft exploded. Though the exterior of the Starfleet vessel, when intact, had been built to withstand the heat of reentry into a planet's atmosphere, this one had been torn apart. There were far too many flammable materials exposed. It would take little to ignite it. Spock estimated the odds, as best he could, that he would find his feet and be able to keep them, and then weighed that against the life of the stranger who had saved him.

They were as bleak as any he had ever given Captain Kirk.

"Go! There is no time!" he shouted, even as the fire reached the small ship's nacelles. _"Go now!"_

The native lowered the bow and eyed him curiously; his slow, measuring gaze running over Spock's lean form with its – at least, what had to appear to him – impossibly close-fitting pants and shirt cut of an unknown cloth. Finally, it lingered on the Vulcan's upswept and clearly _pointed_ ears. For a second Spock believed he _would_ abandon him, but then the man dropped his bow and leapt through the flames. Once at his side, he knelt.

"Place your arm around my neck. Lean against me. Now!"

Logically, there was nothing Spock could do but accept. At this point they would either both make it, or both die as the ship exploded. The Vulcan did as he was ordered without protest, catching hold of the other man and leaning into his strength. Though it was not entirely unexpected, Spock was surprised to find that doing so had a troubling consequence.

He passed out.

When he came to sometime later, the Vulcan was surprised to find that he was no longer in the forest, but back in the cave where Uhura had sequestered him earlier. Spock shifted and attempted to sit up. As he did a formidable pain shot through him, nearly causing him to black out again. Gasping for air, he realized why – the skin of his back and exposed arms was badly burned.

"Whatever that curious vehicle was it is gone now," a rich voice intoned from across the rocky chamber. "It exploded like a powder magazine when the fire climbed inside." The well-educated native walked through the semi-darkness of the ill-lit cave and knelt before him. As he did, Mingo opened the leather pouch he carried and dipped two fingers inside. They emerged covered with a brownish substance that he dropped into a horn full of water before offering it to him. "Here. Drink this," he said. "It will help to ease the pain."

Spock was dubious, but he took it in one trembling hand. Holding the horn cup, the Vulcan willed his muscles to the mental disciplines and was rewarded by a lessening of the tremor. But it did not go away. "Thank you," he said with a curt nod. "Cara-Mingo, is it not?"

"Just Mingo. And you are?"

The Vulcan hesitated. Then, deciding it could do no harm to the time-stream, answered honestly, "Spock."

Mingo rocked back on his feet, examining him again. "A name as unusual as its owner. Unemake thought you a demon."

One ebon eyebrow peaked toward Spock's now less than perfect hair. "And what do _you_ think?"

"I think…." Mingo paused. "I think I do not know _what_ to think." A slow smile curled his thick lips. " 'There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are thought of in your philosophy'."

"Hamlet, Act One, Scene Five," Spock responded automatically.

Mingo nodded. "I did not know that demons read Shakespeare."

Spock thought a moment. "Therefore, oh, Antony, stay not by his side," he quoted, "thy demon – that's thy spirit's keeping – is noble, courageous, high, unmatchable, where Caesar's is not, but near him thy angel becomes a fear, as a being o'er powered."

The native remained silent a moment. Then he finished it for him. "'Make space enough between you.' Are you telling me I should leave you and walk away?"

"I am suggesting that such an action would be wise," Spock replied.

Mingo shook his head. "I cannot leave you. You are not well."

 _That_ was something of an understatement, Spock thought, mildly amused. He had fallen several meters to the ground, was suffering from a fairly massive blood loss, had been attacked by a madman and was, at this moment, losing even more blood from the wound the bear claw's had opened in his neck. The back side of him felt as if it had been roasted. He _desperately_ needed to go into a healing trance, but life seemed bound and determined to prevent it.

Spock's sharp eyes flicked to the man who knelt beside him. Mingo had not escaped unscathed either. The native's quaint clothing was singed and, where his deeply tanned skin was exposed, it bore the marks of first degree burns. "Nevertheless," the Vulcan began, "I cannot ask you to further endanger yourself for me. I am a stranger to you and, as such, you are under no obligation – "

"I don't remember you asking," the other man said with a smile.

"I beg your pardon?" Spock frowned.

"I cannot seem to recall just when you _asked_ for my help. I offered it freely." Mingo shifted and opened the bandoleer at his waist. Drawing out a leaf thick that had been bundled and tied, he opened it to reveal a peculiar and pungent substance. "As such, it is not a gift you can give back. Now, drink the potion I gave you. When that is done, you must remove your shirt and turn your back to me. I have prepared a salve for those burns."

It was unlikely the potion would do anything more than turn his stomach, though the salve might well ease some of the pain. Uncertain, Spock hesitated. In the semi-light of the cave he did not think his rescuer could discern the color of his bruises _or_ the blood smeared on his face, chest and hands, but he could not be certain. Pointed ears were one thing. Blood the color of the forested land about them was another matter entirely. Not only would such a sight undoubtedly terrify his kindly host, but knowledge of it and _him_ could _indeed_ effect the time continuum. Centuries would pass before anyone on earth had sure and solid proof of the existence of extraterrestrials.

"Give it to me," Spock suggested. "I can apply it on my – "

It was Mingo's turn to frown. "I think not. I think, Spock, that you are near to collapse and are holding yourself together by sheer force of will. A man can only do that for so long."

Spock's lip did not lift, but one black eyebrow did. "And a demon?"

"A demon's will is nothing to trifle with," the native answered solemnly. Mingo openly stared at him, his eyes dropping from the elegantly upswept ears to his black singlet, streaked and soaked with both red and green blood. When he spoke, his tone was completely serious. " _Are_ you a demon, Spock?"

Wearily, he shook his head. "If I was, it is my belief that I would be doing a better job of taking care of myself."

Mingo snorted. "What are you then? A riddle wrapped up in an enigma?"

The exhausted Vulcan nodded even as his eyes began to close. "I would hazard to say that is as _accurate_ a description as you and I are bound to arrive at together."

The native said nothing, only nodded again. Spock set the horn cup aside, untouched. Then he lifted his shirt and turned his back, resigned. As Mingo began to apply the cool, healing poultice the Vulcan jerked with pain and relief.

Seconds later, the alien first officer of the Starship Enterprise blacked out.

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Uhura awoke to find herself shackled and alone. She had not been grouped with the rest of the slaves, but had been set apart and lay in some sort of a makeshift lodge upon a bed of blankets. Her head felt as if it had taken a direct hit from a photon torpedo. Behind her dark eyes pain pounded and she felt slightly nauseous. Well, more than _slightly_ , but that didn't matter. What mattered was escape – _especially_ if she read the implications of the nest of fabric beneath her correctly.

It had been a while since the academy, but she had passed all of the survival skill tests with flying colors. One of them had included a similar scenario. The cadet was cast into a primitive non-technological environment where capture was to be avoided at all costs. If captured, the cadet then had to find a way to escape without utilizing any modern devices. She had spent a good many wakeful nights studying up on lock picking, knot tying, and how to make a knife out of a standard issued can of beans. Narrowing her near-black eyes, the Bantu woman surveyed the lodge's interior, searching for likely materials. The ropes on her wrists and ankles were heavy and expertly tied. There were two choices for dealing with them – stressing them _until_ they broke, or finding something to cut them with. As the latter course seemed the most likely to achieve her goal, she looked for something made of metal approximately the right shape. Just as her gaze touched a possibility – a slender knife, almost a dirk, tucked into an elegant silk waistcoat that hung on the back of a battered chair – someone put a hand to the canvas that served as the lodge's door and thrust it aside.

It was the handsome black man.

" _Habari za jioni_ ," he said in Swahili as he entered; his voice black silk sheets sliding across her bound frame. " _Habari yako?_ "

 _Hello. How are you?_ Boy, what she wouldn't have given for _this_ man to ask those questions under _very_ different circumstances. The stranger spoke her native tongue as if he had been born to it, though she sincerely doubted that he had been. Uhura watched him watching her and, as she did, she inspected and sized him up. He was at the least six foot two. Probably an inch or two more. His face was chiseled ebony, bony as the mountains, but with smooth beardless plains running between. His eyes were pewter gray and shone like hematite kissed by a moonbeam. His tall, lean form was well-muscled and he held himself like a king, which it appeared he might be from the conspicuous wealth he chose to exhibit in the clothing he wore. Uhura drew a breath against his beauty and reminded herself that this man bartered in human flesh; that he traded in human lives.

That he was a slaver.

When she did not answer, he drew closer. Then he knelt at her side. _"Jino lako nani?"_ the tall man asked softly.

She _refused_ to be drawn in. " _Uhura_. I imagine you know what _that_ means."

He chuckled under his breath. "Freedom. Liberty."

"Yes," she growled. "I would like mine. _Now_."

The black man rocked back on his heels. He studied her for a moment and then reached out and fingered the fabric of her gown. "You are not from around here." It was a statement, not a question.

Did he guess?

"No. I have only just arrived today." She shifted uncomfortably, trying to ease the pain in her wrists. "Is this how Kentuckians _usually_ greet and treat their visitors?"

"I wouldn't know," he answered as he rose to his feet. "I am not from Kentucky." The man crossed then to a trunk that occupied one corner of the lodge. Once there, he knelt by it and began to rummage through its contents.

Uhura bit her lip. Damn! She _had_ to know. "Where _are_ you from then?" she asked.

He shot a look at her over his shoulder. It seemed almost…amused. Then he turned back to the trunk.

Uhura fell silent. She no longer felt threatened – as if she had been brought here to be taken advantage of – but she did feel a growing unease. A slaver with an overactive libido she could have handled. She would use her feminine wiles and reel him in and then drive the hook deep. This man obviously found her attractive, but seemed in complete control of his desires. Almost like a Vulcan.

Spock. Uhura closed her eyes and whispered, "Hold on, Spock. I'm trying to get back to you…."

The black man froze and jerked around to stare at her. His handsome face wore a frown. "Spock?" he repeated.

If he had slapped her, she couldn't have been more stunned. He couldn't have heard her – not with _human_ ears. "What?"

"The Vulcan. Where is he?"

"V-vulcan?" she stammered. "I don't know what you are talking about, I – "

In a second he was on her; his hand clasped tightly about her throat. His strength was frightening. "I _knew_ you did not belong here," the once handsome, but now sinister man declared, his voice tight and full of menace. "Did you come with him? Where is _Spock?_ "

"I…I don't know what you are talking about," she repeated.

For a moment, the man said nothing. A second later his dark lips parted in a sneer. "Then it appears I was wrong. I told Solomon that you were not like the others, but were a cut above. Most likely an escaped servant from some _grand_ house and, as such, worth more …intact." He caught her bruised chin between his fingers and squeezed, bringing tears to the star traveler's eyes. "Solomon _fancies_ you. You know that, don't you? Just one word and he will be in here _and_ on you. Is that what you want, _freedom_ woman? I think not." He released her, snapping her already sore neck back. "Tell me where the Vulcan is and I will let you remain here, under my protection. Otherwise…."

He let the threat hang.

" _Kamwe_ ," she said, her voice a hoarse whisper. " _Ng'o!_ "

Never.

The man continued to stare at her, and for a moment Uhura feared the return of that powerful hand to her throat. Instead, he rose to his feet and went back to the trunk. This time he found what he wanted. He removed a bag and brought it with him when he returned to her side. As she watched, the slaver reached into it and drew out –

A tricorder!

"What?" Uhura gasped.

"You could have saved yourself a good deal of trouble, Uhura, _and_ gained my trust. As it is, with or without you I will find your Vulcan companion. And then he will die."

"Why?" she gasped.

The man cocked his head and met her incredulous stare. "Because I desire it. Because it will pain my enemy."

"Your enemy? What does that mean?" Uhura struggled powerlessly against her bonds. "What are you doing here? _Who are you?"_

"You may call me Tume," he answered, his voice softening.

The word was Swahili. It meant agent or messenger.

"Who is it you serve?" she asked.

The black man smiled.

"Time."


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter Seven

Mingo pressed his reddened shoulder against the heavy wood and was rewarded as the door to the Boone cabin gave way. Still, as relief welled up within him, fear also overtook him. The cabin was empty. _Where_ was Rebecca? And where was Israel, whom he had commissioned Silver Fox to see home? The only thought that quieted the pounding anxiety in his breast was the possibility that Daniel had returned early and removed his family to the fort. Mingo staggered across the floor, bearing his burden. If it _was_ so, the move – while fortuitous for the Boones – might well prove fatal to the dying man he had all but carried through the forest to this oft-visited haven of recovery and rest.

Spock had regained consciousness a half hour or so after Mingo finished applying the cooling salve to the his skin. Brooking no argument, the stranger had insisted on rising to his feet and making the journey to the cabin under his own strength. All too soon fatigue coupled with the blood loss had overcome him, and he had weakened almost unto death. Halting, Mingo had left Spock leaning against a tree and gone to fetch water, hoping to cool the rising fever that raged through the man's lean form. Upon returning, he had found him slumped on the ground. For a time, Mingo had feared the stranger gone. Placing an ear against the man's chest, the Cherokee warrior had found no heartbeat. Still, when he felt the Spock's throat, he found the blood still pulsed through his veins. Rousing him at last, Mingo had forced a few drops of water between Spock's tightly clenched lips, and then bodily lifted the man and carried him to this place.

Now the stranger lay, pale as death, in Daniel and Rebecca's bed.

Though the morning light was dawning and creeping across the rough boards of the Boone's floor, Mingo crossed to the table and lit the single oil lamp Daniel possessed. With it, he crossed back to the bed and stood looking down at Spock. Fortunately for the stranger, he was not _unaccustomed_ to unusual countenances. While in England, Mingo had seen more than his share of East End shows that featured – and took advantage of – men taken as captives from foreign lands. This one bore a resemblance to the ones called _Asian_. Still, there was something about the cast of his lean, angular face that was different – and it wasn't merely the tilt of his black eyebrows or his oddly-shaped ears. Mingo placed the lamp on the side table and sat down at the stranger's side. It's golden light illuminated Spock's recumbent form. The Cherokee warrior reached out and fingered the unusual black fabric that clothed it. It startled him when the soft fabric stretched and then reformed as he let it go. What remained on his fingertips startled Mingo as well. He rolled the substance between them and then lifted the stained digits to his nose. It was blood. Not red, but black. Or no, perhaps….

Mingo rose to his feet so quickly he nearly knocked the chair over. Ill at ease, he crossed to the window. He was amazed and terrified as no seasoned warrior had a right to be.

The man's blood was green.

Even as a kind of terror he could not describe gripped the ebon-haired native, the wounded man opened his eyes and sighed. It took a massive effort, but finally Spock managed to croak. "No. Not a _man_."

The stranger seemed he had read his mind. " _Are_ you a…demon, then?" Mingo asked, his voice hushed with both awe and fear.

"No." Spock drew a shuddering breath. "There is no…easy way to…convey _what_ I am. I come from…one of the stars in…the sky."

"One of the _stars?_ " Mingo's dark eyes returned to the window and the lush vista beyond. "Another world? You mean, as in Voltaire's _Micromégas?_ "

The stranger fell silent for a moment. Then he nodded. "Yes. I am a…space traveler."

Mingo returned to the chair by the bed and sat back down. Hard. A demon would have been easier to deal with, and to believe in.

"What? From where…."

"There is no time…and…even if there _was_ …I am not at liberty…to tell you."

Mingo nodded. He had seen enough to recognize when a soul was close to shuffling off its mortal coil. "You are dying."

A slight smile lifted one corner of Spock's green-tinted lips. "It would seem…so. Unless…."

"Unless?" he leaned forward.

"I must enter a…healing trance." The traveler's voice was growing weaker. "It…is the…only chance…."

"I am familiar with trances," Mingo answered. And he was. He had witnessed many _and_ the miracles they could bring. "My tribe's healer has often – "

"Similar…but _not_ the same." Spock's jaw tightened. "I will appear…almost dead. The trance will…render me unconscious and…unable to be moved." He gasped for air. "When the time comes, you must…wake me."

Mingo was silent for a moment. He contemplated whether or not the choice to extend the space traveler's life was a safe – or a _sound_ one. "Why do you have no heartbeat? Do you _have_ no heart?"

Spock must have heard the fear he tried to hide. "Lower down. Different place…."

When he had been known as Kerr Murray, Mingo and his fellow students had postulated the idea of life other than that which they knew. Oxford, of course, had been a seat of radical thinking. The current scientific age bred, among the educated and wealthy, a desire to think outside of the conventional 'box'. For centuries the church had disallowed such thinking, but now – in this new age of enlightenment – what the church forbade many embraced. After all, was it possible that the Creator in His infinite wisdom and power had created only _one_ world of children? Looking at the battered figure lying before him, how could he _not_ call him a man?

"What must I do?" Mingo asked at last.

Spock seemed to relax. His hands, which had been tightly clenched, released their hold on the coarse fabric of Dan and Becky's homespun sheets. "While I am… healing…I will be completely vulnerable. I ask…that you keep watch." The space traveler drew a shuddering breath. "When I ask you, you must…strike me. _Hard._ With all…your strength."

"Strike you? A _wounded_ man?"

"I must be… _forced_ to consciousness. Otherwise, I _will_ die."

Mingo failed to understand. "How long will it take for you to recover?" he asked.

The stranger grimaced. His voice was fading. "Unknown."

The Cherokee warrior pondered the request. Then he nodded. "I will keep watch. And, when the time comes, I will do as you ask."

Spock nodded as well, having no more strength for words. His dark, deeply pained eyes closed. His breathing evened and then almost halted, and he fell silent.

For some time Mingo remained where he was. Then he moved to the traveler's side. Placing his ear on Spock's chest he listened. As before, finding nothing, he felt the stranger's pulse and throat. Still uncertain, he crossed to Rebecca's bureau and picked up her mirror and returned with it. Placing the glass to the wounded man's lips, he did not relax until a telltale mist clouded it. Dropping the mirror on the bedside table, Mingo let loose a disbelieving sigh –

Just as the door to the cabin opened and a familiar copper-haired figure stepped over the threshold. It took Rebecca Boone a second to realize that her home was not empty. When she did, Daniel's beautiful wife stiffened and reached for the broom she always kept propped by the door, intending to wield it as a weapon. Then, something must have alerted her – a familiar scent, or perhaps the outline of his tall figure by the bed.

"Mingo?" she asked.

"Yes, Rebecca, it is I," he answered, placing himself between her and vision of the man on the bed.

Suddenly alert, she took a step toward him. "Is it Dan?"

"No. I have not seen Daniel." He frowned. "Has he not returned home? I assumed since no one was here – "

"Dan's been and gone," she answered, drawing closer. "He took Israel and me to the fort before heading out. I came back for supplies." Rebecca's blue eyes narrowed as she sought to peer around him. "Mingo, _who_ is that in my bed?"

So Israel _was_ safe. Mingo closed his eyes and gave thanks to the Creator for that. "Silver Fox was here then?" he asked as he reopened them.

She nodded. "He said he was going back to Chota. Dan was looking for you. You didn't see either of them?"

"No. I was…preoccupied."

Rebecca scowled at him and then moved past. There was nothing Mingo could do to stop her. It was, after all _her_ home he had invaded. He watched as she halted and glanced down at the silent figure. The morning light was streaming now through the open window. It lit Spock's lean form. Still, there was hope. At a casual glance Rebecca Boone might easily miss the telltale signs that the man in her bed…

Was not human.

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Leonard McCoy growled as he adjusted the thick white cravat that circled his neck and refastened the jeweled stud that held it in place. Accompanied by the still unnamed traveler, he had located a replicator in a near empty section of the ship and requested appropriate attire from the Enterprise's computer, asking for a costume that would suit a 19th century healer from Earth. The first round the damned machine had kitted him out as a native, replete with a rattle and snake-shaped wand! When he had said, _damn it_ , he meant a _Caucasian_ healer, the blasted machine had adjusted and provided him with what looked like an undertaker's Sunday best. To the amusement of the alien who accompanied him, it had taken _three_ more attempts to get it even close to right. Finally, just about the time the disgruntled surgeon was certain Jim Kirk would call and demand to know what the _hell_ he was doing, McCoy found himself attired in a simple black suit, a linen shirt replete with a diamond stickpin, an elegant waistcoat, and a dark gray cloak. He wore breeches – which made him feel like a damned school boy – and a pair of clocked or decorated socks that disappeared into black leather shoes decorated with shining silver buckles. The computer assured him the buckles – like the stickpin – were a necessary mark of station.

More likely they would make him a necessary 'mark' for every passing highwayman and vagabond. Grumpy already, McCoy turned to the amused creature watching him and asked abruptly, "Do you have a name? If I'm going to get court-martialed for following you _God_ only knows where, I think I deserve to know your name."

"My people do not have names," the willow-thin woman answered.

"Well, then, I'm just gonna have to make one up." McCoy scowled. "Scout, maybe? Voyager or Wanderer? No. That's not it." He looked her up and down, thinking about his mental description of her. "Maybe just Willow."

"Willow?" the wraith-thin alien asked with a smile.

"A type of tree back on Earth. Thin, but nearly unbreakable. It bends with the wind and so, it survives."

A slight smile parted her near bloodless lips. "I like that."

"Willow, it is then." The surgeon placed the tricorn hat the computer had spit out at the last second at a jaunty angle on his grizzled head. "So now what?"

"Since you are not of my people, I must open a time tube for you to travel through."

"For _me_ to travel through _?_ " McCoy's ice-blue eyes narrowed. "Aren't you coming with me?"

"Not now. I cannot." At his startled look, she added. "I will seek you out later."

"How _much_ later?"

Willow quivered. Perhaps with fear for _him_. He realized then how apt the name he had christened her with was. As she shook, the trailing ends of her white hair brushed her bony shoulders as if shaken by a wind. "You would be in more danger, should I appear with you. Alone, you will be only one more human."

" _How_ would they know?" McCoy moved toward her. "Do they have advanced technology with them on the planet? Something like a tricorder?"

She nodded.

"Oh joy…" he whispered. "But I can't take any with _me?_ " She had warned him against it, though without Willow's knowledge McCoy had stowed a medical kit in his doctor's bag. _And_ filled it with synthesized Vulcan hemoglobin as well as human. Knowing Spock, the Vulcan already had at least _one_ wound that needed tending to.

Willow looked at him as if she had read his thoughts. "You will do as you feel you must. But do anything outside of the norm for the time and they will find you."

"And do what?"

The traveler drew close to him. Unexpectedly, she took his face in her hands. The touch of her fingers was cool. So was that of her lips.

Startled, McCoy pulled back out of the kiss. "What was _that_ for?"

Willow's fingers slid down his arms. She caught his hands in her own. As she did, McCoy became keenly aware – and intensely uncomfortable – as the fabric of the Enterprise began to fade around him.

The alien's pale eyes met his and she smiled sadly.

"Luck."

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Rebecca Boone lingered at the stranger's bedside. The full light of morning was streaming in the cabin windows and she was afraid. Mingo had gone outside to fetch firewood so they could warm the cabin and left her with….

With _what?_

The man on the bed was very close to death. Minutes, it seemed, passed between breaths. She had felt for his pulse earlier and finding none – even _as_ he breathed – retreated to the hearth where she had remained for some time. Still, Mingo had made her promise to keep watch while he was gone and so, when she had composed herself, Becky returned to the stranger's side.

After all, Mingo _had_ brought him here. He couldn't be dangerous.

 _Could_ he?

At first, their unexpected guest had simply perplexed her. It had been obvious from the man's clothes, the color of his skin – and his _ears_ – that he was neither white nor Indian. She had asked Mingo to explain, but the Cherokee warrior had only said the man was a traveler and that he was pledged to care for him. She had accepted Mingo at his word and, as soon as he stepped out of the door, had begun the ministrations she would have given to any of God's creatures. As she removed the bandages from the stranger's leg in order to see his injuries more clearly and treat them, the wound had begun to bleed again. It was then that she realized – this man was _not_ any of God's creatures that she knew.

In fact, she wasn't sure he _was_ a man.

The redhead glanced down at her hands and dress. They were covered in blood.

 _Green_ blood.

Shuddering, Becky clasped her arms about her shaking frame and turned toward the door, wishing Mingo would return. In fact, she thought as she grew suddenly alarmed, Mingo should have been back longbefore now. He had just gone to get wood.

Where _was_ he?

Crossing to the door, Becky placed one hand on the bar that sealed it. She hesitated before lifting it. The traveler's injuries told several stories. He was battered and bruised, as one might be from a fall or a long plunge down a hillside. And though the gash on his thigh looked as if it had been made by a branch and not a knife, he had obviously been attacked. Was this man a fugitive? Would there be _other_ men in pursuit? Would Mingo have brought him here if he knew there were?

What was it, she wondered, that lay just beyond the door?

Drawing a deep breath, she called out, "Mingo? Mingo, are you there?"

Silence answered her. Becky bit her lip. Of course, he could be too far away from the cabin to hear her call. Coming to a decision, she removed the bar and opened the door just a _tiny_ crack. Peering out, Becky searched the yard, looking toward the wood stack. There was no sign of movement.

"Mingo?"

This time she heard something. A short exclamation abruptly cut off. Every nerve in Rebecca Boone's shapely frame tensed at the sound. She darted back through the door and, catching hold of it, thrust it forward crying, 'No!' Just before it would have locked into place, the heavy door stuck and refused to budge. Looking down, she saw the reason why.

A man's elegant boot was firmly wedged between it and the jamb.

Even as Becky pushed with all her strength, the door began to move inward. "No!" she shouted again. "Go away!"

A stranger's voice, cultured, thick and rich as buttermilk, declared from the other side, "If you value the savage's life, you will back away from the door, Mrs. Boone."

"How do I know you're not lying?" she asked, still pushing hard. "Mingo might have gone off hunting."

"Rebecca. Do not allow them access!" she heard her friend shout. "Rebecca – " There were the sounds of a scuffle and then a cry of pain – once again cut short.

"Mingo?"

The stranger answered instead. "Your savage friend is no longer capable of responding. If you would like him to be able to later, Mrs. Boone, you will open this door. _Now."_

Becky hesitated only a moment. Then, she released her hold and backed away.

The elegantly dressed black man who entered had to duck. He was nearly as tall as Dan. As he crossed the threshold and entered the room, she noticed that he moved as if he thought himself a king. Two men, old and young, followed him. They were roughly dressed and smelled of sweat and rum. Between them dangled the Cherokee warrior's unconscious form. With a snort, the black man ordered him released. Mingo slammed into the floor boards.

It appeared he had been struck on the side of the head.

"Who are you?" Becky demanded. "What do you want? What gives you the _right_ to come barging into my home without permission? Or the right to harm a man who has done _nothing_ to you?"

The black man stared at her for a moment. She had a hard time reading his face. He seemed, at least in part, amused. "My name is Tume. And what I do _must_ be done." With that, the stranger left her and crossed the room to stand by the bed. Silently, he stared down at the wounded man. For a moment, he said nothing. Then, nodding his head, he said – almost to himself – "As I thought. The first officer of the Enterprise."

Becky's blue eyes flicked to the figure on the bed. _First officer?_ Was the curious traveler a member of the military? Was he here in conjunction with the Shawnee uprising Dan had mentioned, and did Mingo know about it? If so, things made a little more sense.

Just a _little._

As Tume reached toward the unconscious man, Becky said boldly, "You haven't answered my question."

The black man turned to look at her. "Mrs. Boone, I am a tolerant man, but you are trying my patience. You _will_ be quiet."

"Or what?" she snapped as her hands sought and found their accustomed place on her shapely hips.

"Or _this_." Tume's upper lip curled in an unpleasant sneer. "Solomon, bind her! And, as Mrs. Boone is prone to make her opinions known even when they are _not_ wanted, make certain you lodge the gag firmly between her teeth."

Becky began to back away. "No."

The black man scowled. He crossed directly to where Mingo lay. Pulling a pistol from behind his belt, Tume pointed it at the Cherokee's head. "Your cooperation is advised."

She halted where she stood. "Don't hurt him."

The sneer shifted into an evil smile, so vile it chilled her blood. "If I do, let it be on _your_ head."

Five minutes later Becky found herself bound and tied to a chair near the table. From her helpless position, she watched as Tume ordered the other men to leave and to take Mingo with them. The redhead struggled against her bonds, but there was nothing she could do. The older man took hold of the Cherokee warrior's unconscious form by the ankles and dragged him out the door; headless of the terrible noise it made when Mingo's dark head struck the threshold.

The sound sickened her.

Tears stung Becky's eyes as she turned back to see what other evil Tume intended. Just as she did, the black man reached out and touched the cheek of the wounded man; almost gently. Puzzled, Becky waited – even as the black man did – for some sort of a response. When he did not receive one, Tume did something that both shocked and startled her. He drew back his arm and struck the unconscious man's jaw with as much force as he could. Becky felt the blow echo through the cabin and her frame.

"Spock!" the black man said, his voice stern; his tone demanding. "Hear me, Spock!" When the wounded man failed to move, Tume struck him again. "You _will_ hear!"

A low moan answered him, tenuous and sickly.

"Good," Tume laughed. " _Good._ It is not time yet, but you _will_ wake. And _when_ you wake and call, there will be no one here to do what you ask. Do you hear me, Vulcan?" The black man leaned in close and lowered his voice so it was hard for Becky to hear. "You will gasp for breath, Vulcan. You will reach out with your mind, but there will be no one to touch. There will be no one to rouse you and to bring you back; no one but a feeble woman who, should she try, will only give you false hope." Becky shuddered at the evil smile Tume turned on her. Turning back to the injured man, he added, "You _will_ die, Vulcan. Alone and in agony. You will die and then _he_ will die as well."

The moan repeated. It was slightly more audible this time.

The older man had reentered the room – without Mingo. "Tume, why?" he asked. "And why leave her alive?" The slaver indicated Becky with a nod. "Why not take her and sell her then? She'd be worth a lot of furs to some old chief."

The black man left the bedside to cross to her. When he spoke, his words were for her ears alone. "You _too_ would like to know. But I will not say." Looking at the other man, Tume pronounced loudly, "It is because I _say_ it is so." The elegantly attired slaver gazed at her and then added, as much to himself as to her.

"The half-caste will not win."


	8. Chapter 8

Chapter Eight

 _Gim-e-wane Al-ag-wa_ or Rain of Stars, the recently elected Shawnee war chief, sat on the dirt floor of his lodge in a position the white man mockingly referred to as 'Indian fashion'. His hands rested palm up on his knees, as if opened in supplication. His well-muscled body was stiff; his back ram-rod straight. Umber brown hair, roughly cut in a shaggy mane that fell across his forehead, covered his ears, and then descended like a cloak to his deceptively narrow shoulders, surrounded a face aesthetically beautiful and beautifully severe. His amber eyes were closed. Every ounce of his attention – every fiber of his being – was focused on his breathing, which had grown so slow as to appear almost nonexistent. In this pose – in this _place_ – he reached out to touch the essence of the one whom he had sent on an errand nearly two days before. For a moment, there was nothing. Then he found him. Unemake was making his way through the forest even now, headed for this place. Rain of Stars frowned in spite of himself and sought for a deeper connection. The shaman had not completed his task.

Unemake came alone.

The shaman was also wounded. Rain of Stars could sense a rising fire in the man's veins. Narrowing his inner eyes, the war chief drove deeper into his puppet's mind. He groped about, as in the dark, repulsed by the primitive thoughts he encountered until he fastened on one in particular. It was a fear overlaid with _two_ faces. One native. The other…

 _Alien_ as he.

Rain of Stars saw the two men in the wooded glade. The native warrior stood poised and confident. Drawing back on the string of his bow, he let loose an arrow that drove its stone head through the shaman's shoulder. The other man – the _demon_ as Unemake named him – lay on the ground. He had been at the shaman's mercy until the shaft had been driven home and Unemake driven away.

Rain of Stars shifted. His chest rose and fell with one great _deep_ sigh, and then he opened his dark golden eyes.

At that moment Unemake stepped into the lodge. It took the shaman a moment to adjust to the smoke-filled darkened space. Then his puppet saw him and immediately fell to his knees.

" _Gim-e-wane Al-ag-wa_ ," the shaman intoned, his voice a hoarse whisper of fear.

"What news do you bring me?" Rain of Stars asked, though he already knew.

"I have failed. The demon yet is loose."

The war chief shifted and rose to his feet with the grace of a cougar uncurling before the kill. "And why is this? Did I not tell you to bring him to me?"

Unemake did not look up. "His evil is stronger than we thought."

Rain of Stars set a slow, deliberate pace that took him in a circle around the kneeling native. "Did I not tell you that it was imperative he be brought here?" The war chief's amber eyes flicked to the shaman's belt where he noticed a telltale light. "The _magic_ I gave you is still there. Why did you not use it to subdue him?"

"I did not have a chance." Unemake lifted his head, but quickly dropped it again upon seeing the expression on the war chief's face. The shaman lifted a hand and pulled aside the vest he wore to reveal the arrow wound Rain of Stars had seen in his vision. "Another came. He defended the demon. I was driven away."

"Another? And who was this?"

"Cara-Mingo of the Cherokee," the shaman spat with disgust.

"Someone you know?" Rain of Stars inquired, slightly amused.

"He is _aptozi!_ " Unemake growled, showing both prejudice and ignorance.

Ignorance, at least, of who it was he spoke to.

"A half-breed? And you do not approve, I take it?"

Something in his voice must have alerted the shaman to the fact that there was a line drawn that he had crossed. Unemake made no reply.

His enjoyment of his puppet's discomfort growing, Rain of Stars fought the sneer that threatened to twist his lips. "Speak your mind."

Black eyes met his and then retreated. "Mingo's mother's red blood is weakened by his white father."

"Nevertheless, he was strong enough to stop you."

Unemake's dark eyes widened with terror. "You have _seen?_ You saw?"

Rain of Stars stopped before the frightened man. He knelt and crouched, putting their eyes on a level. Then, ever _so_ slowly he reached out and pressed three long fingers to the shaman's temples, making certain they contacted the appropriate nerves. The war chief watched as the shaman's eyes grew blank and his jaw slack. Then he leaned in close and whispered –

"My mind to your mind…."

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Leonard McCoy stumbled and almost fell over an upturned root. He caught himself and then, after a moment, staggered forward to place a hand against the rough bark of the root's parent tree. Breathing hard, he pressed one hand into his stomach and fought the urge to retch.

And he'd thought the _damned_ transporter was bad!

Sweat beaded on his face and nausea threatened to choke him. Dropping to the forest floor with the tree's trunk as his chair back, McCoy reached up and loosened the cravat enough that he could breathe. Taking a linen handkerchief from his pocket, he wiped his forehead with it and then looked around.

Trees. More trees. Bushes, shrubs. And even _more_ trees.

Oh joy.

What he wouldn't have given for a tricorder with preset coordinates for his destination! Or even better, one preset for Vulcan physiology. The star traveling surgeon ran the back of one trembling hand across his mouth, wiping away saliva, and then swallowed hard. "Admit it, Leonard," he told himself, "as much as you grumble about all the space age technology you are surrounded by and pretend you want to be an old-fashioned take-their-pulse type of doctor, you're _lost_ without it."

He sat for several minutes, gathering his wits and getting his bearings. The computer had placed a compass in his kit and he used it now to determine which direction was south. Willow had told him to go south. That was all. And she had only done that as she vanished into the swirling electrical storm that was the time tube that had brought him here.

Just thinking about it made him want to throw up again.

Rising shakily to his feet, Dr. Leonard McCoy of the Starship Enterprise pushed off the tree and started in the direction the compass pointed. The new day had just dawned. Only half conscious of it, he lifted one booted foot and placed it in front of the other in an effort to do whatever it was he had been sent here to do. His mission – from his point of view – was to find Uhura and Spock and take them back. He wasn't sure what Willow's mission was. He had been afraid to ask.

Hopefully, in the end, the two would prove to be the same.

As he walked, McCoy began to notice the beauty of the land around him. The forest was lush and green and showing the first signs of spring. Small blossoms had erupted on some of the overhanging branches, and others pushed up through the brown earth peering at him like small cherubic faces bright with joy. Once the wave of nausea passed, he was able to draw a deep breath. For the first time, as he felt the warm breeze on his face, he realized he was home.

"Good old southern air," he remarked to himself. "Sweet as the scent of bourbon fresh out of the bot – "

Ten seconds later Leonard McCoy was breathing his bourbon fresh air upside-down as his body swung from the budding branch of one of the forest's trees. As he let loose a list of invectives skillfully culled from years on the battlefield and in emergency rooms, McCoy looked up to find that his left ankle was encircled by an expertly tied noose.

He had stepped into a trap!

" _Goldarnit_ ," a man beneath him snorted, sounding disappointed. "Tain't a bear or a cat. Looks like we done caught ourselves a green hand."

"Sure did," a second man added as he came alongside the first. "He looks buffaloed."

McCoy blinked and looked down. Were the pair speaking Earth standard? If they were, it was no Earth dialect he had ever heard.

The first man who spoke had a wave of blond hair the color of ripe wheat, and a full mustache to match. His exposed skin was tanned dark as the leather pouch he wore, which was slung casually over a fringed buckskin coat. His eyes were blue and they sparkled with mirth – not malicious, but _damned_ mischievous. The second man appeared to be older. He wore beeches, a linen shirt and dark brown vest, along with a curiously shaped hat that was perched atop a thinning head of hair both brown and gray.

The older of the two pulled at his graying beard. "You think we oughta cut him down? He's gettin' mighty red in the face."

"I…don't…know," the first replied as his face broke into a grin. "I think that's a'cause he's _mighty_ angry."

"Which are you two? Simpletons or idiots?" McCoy snarled, confirming the man's assessment. "I'm a doctor not a bunch of grapes. Cut me down!"

The blond cocked his head. "You look more like a bunch of grapes to me."

"You really a doctor?" the older man asked, making conversation as if everything was normal even as the blood rushed to McCoy's head. "You on your way to Boonesborough? We could _sure_ use a doctor there."

"If you don't cut me down soon I will die of a hemorrhage, and then you'll have to wait until some other poor fool happens by to autopsy me!"

The two men continued to stare at him. Then the older one nodded. "Yep. He's mighty angry," he said.

McCoy closed his eyes and sighed. It was a mistake. In the time it took him to open them again there was a loud report, followed by a cloud of noxious smoke and a whizzing metal projectile that sliced through the air to strike the rope directly above his ankle. Seconds later, he plummeted gracelessly to the ground. The doctor lay there unmoving. His head had just missed the cushioning presence of his medical bag that lay on the ground where he had dropped it.

Instead, it hit a rock.

The two men walked over to his side and stood looking down at him. "Don't look so angry now, Yad," the older one remarked casually.

"Don't look so _good_ neither, 'Natus," the blond agreed, his voice showing the first real sign of concern.

McCoy groaned, retched, and the world went black.

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Rain of Stars stood in an open field staring at the panoply of black sky and winking stars above his head. He felt weak and exhausted. Unemake might not be one of the brightest lights in the heavens, but the shaman had a will of iron. Drawing what information he needed from him had not been easy. Unemake had fought him all the way, raising barricades and attempting to shut him out even as he moved into the deeper parts of the Shawnee's mind, seeking not only the memory, but the very _images_ the native had seen. When at last he found them, they confirmed what he already knew.

That fact took his breath away.

The images wrenched from the shaman's mind gave proof that the two who had fallen from the sky were the ones he sought. He had clearly seen the image of the damaged shuttlecraft with its call letters and name written across its wrenched side, as well as the face of the one the shaman called a _demon_. He was free now to act. Still, he hesitated. Like his blood, he was divided. The role he played with the Shawnee was a sham – or at least it _had_ been. Now, he was not so certain. Of late he had come to question the motives of the Initiators in whose employ he found himself. His pretense was quickly becoming his cause. Now that the _one_ was safely in this time, he had to decide his course. Events were unfolding that would soon change the course of history. And though his people despaired of the Federation with its weak-kneed penchant for peace over a strong hand, they did not wish to see it destroyed.

Well, _some_ of his people did not wish to.

Rain of Stars lips parted with a sigh that was almost wistful. Long before, the lion and the lamb had lain down together at least once – that was why _he_ was here.

Closing his eyes, the war chief summoned the images once more. The first meeting of Unemake with the demon. The shaman's fascination and fear. The Shawnee's decision to disobey orders and kill the creature before it could fall into Rain of Star's hands. Obviously he had not indoctrinated Unemake well enough. The shaman still had a will of his own.

The war chief's smile broadened into a fully wicked one.

Or at least, he _had._

Casting his mind back into Unemake's memories, Rain of Stars sought out the image of the Vulcan first officer. What he knew of him was ancient history, and had long been regarded by many in his family as legend. Still, legend meant more to his mother's people than cold hard facts. Rain of Stars knew the letters and numbers of that shuttlecraft well. _NCC 1701_. And the name _U.S.S ENTERPRISE._ In the 25th century, both were still revered among humankind, as were the men and women who had sailed on the constellation class starship.

 _Human_ -kind. _His_ kind, for human blood flowed in Rain of Star's veins along with the others.

The war chief shook his dark mane of hair back from where the rising wind had blown it. He reached up and passed a bronzed hand through the thick locks on the right-hand side. As he did his fingers hesitated, and then touched and traced the tip of one well-hidden and elegantly pointed ear. What would Unemake think, he wondered, should the shaman wake and come outside only to discover that the newly elected war chief of the Shawnee was also a _demon_?

Rain of Stars opened his mouth and laughed, long and hard.

It shouldn't, after all, have surprised the native. After all, like is drawn to like – it is only logical.

Just as it was only logical for Rain of Stars to desire to meet his long departed kin.

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

"So what'cha think, 'Natus? He gonna make it or not? That there bump's on his noggin big enough to slow a horse at a trot."

"Can't rightly say. I'd a thought he'd a come around by now. Since he ain't…."

"You think he's really a doctor?"

"Got the right kind of clothes. Look at that piece of jewelry, and them shoe buckles. Silver, ain't they?"

"Shiny enough to temp a magpie."

"Well, let's get them off him…."

This was it. He was being robbed. The words spoken by the two highwaymen filtered into McCoy's consciousness along with the fact that he had a raging headache and almost every bone in his body ached from its impact with the ground. The doctor fought the urge to moan and _damned_ himself for considering the fact that – for just a moment – he wished he was Spock, with the Vulcan's control. Then he lost both fights.

"You hear that?" the older man asked. "I think he's wakin' up."

"Nah. That was just my gut. Ain't fed it today and it's hollerin'."

"I guess you might be right, Yad. I'll go get you some leftover stew."

So he was saved for the moment by a bumpkin with a distended belly.

McCoy cautiously lifted one eyelid and peered through a veil of eyelashes at his captors. It came as a shock when he realized he was no longer outside laying on the ground but inside, in some sort of a tavern. If these men were robbers, why would they have taken the time and effort to move him? Wouldn't they simply have taken the buckles from his shoes, as well as any other thing of value, and left him to die beside the road?

Maybe they weren't highwaymen after all.

A hand on his foot, preparing to remove his boot, made McCoy hesitate. Then, taking one of those great leaps of faith that Jim Kirk was so well known for, the doctor opened his eyes and said, "Hello."

Both men jumped like a Pendari leaping legume.

The blond recovered the most quickly. "Now don't that beat all," Yad mused. "Here we took you for a goner."

McCoy raised a hand to his head and felt the lump. It was the size of the proverbial goose egg. He frowned with the pain of the light entering his eyes. "I need my bag," he said without preamble. "Where is it?"

The older man's watery blue eyes narrowed. "You got some mighty _pee_ -culiar things in that there bag, stranger."

"Did you touch any of them?" McCoy snapped.

"We was looking to help you, what with you being a doctor and all." Yad tilted his head and stared the surgeon down – hard. "What's in them little bags of red and green?"

"Wine distilled with herbs," McCoy promptly lied. "For poultices and plasters."

"And what's this? Ain't like anythin' _I_ ever seen."

At the last moment McCoy had tossed a mini hand phaser into his kit. He felt…well, naked without one. As the blond bumpkin produced it from behind his back and began to thumb the setting control, the surgeon raised his hands in alarm. "Don't! I mean, be careful with that. It's a new…. It's a new kind of …." Think, Bones, _think!_ he told himself. "Fleam! Those knobs control the lancets for letting blood. You might hurt yourself."

A look of disgust overcame Yad's rugged face. "It ain't got leeches in it, does it?"

Why the _hell_ not? "Yes," McCoy answered.

Yad dropped the phaser to the floor like it was a poisonous snake. McCoy held his breath, fearful it would fire on impact. When it didn't, the surgeon breathed a sigh of relief. He swung his feet over the side of the rude cot he had been laid on and stood, intending to fetch it – only to sway and fall back to his seat.

'Natus picked the phaser up and handed it to him. Then he placed a hand on the doctor's shoulder. "That blow was a hard one, stranger. You'd best lie down for a few hours. We're…." He looked at the other man. "We're sorry we caused you to get hurt."

There was kindness in the older man's voice, and genuine regret. McCoy looked up at him and instantly knew that his fears had been unfounded. Compassion shown from the graybeard's eyes; the compassion of a healer.

"Yeah," Yad said, kneading the edges of his dark hat with his callused fingers. "Sometimes fun ain't so much fun for the one being laughed at."

" _Some_ times?" McCoy echoed with a lift of one grizzled brow.

"All times," the blond admitted sheepishly.

The older man looked from Yad to McCoy and then stuck out his hand. "Cincinnatus Jones. Pleased to make your acquaintance, Doctor…"

"Doctor Leonard McCoy," he replied.

The blond ran a self-conscious hand through his thick hair and then stuck it out. "Yadkin. Ain't no first name I tell anyone. Just call me Yad."

As McCoy winced at the feel of bear grease on the blond's skin, Cincinnatus leaned in close and whispered, "It's Carolina."

"Huh?" the doctor responded.

"Well, just go and tell the whole country, why don't ya!" Yad growled.

The older man smiled and winked. "Give me time…."

McCoy recognized in them something of himself; a southern toughness tempered with hard-bitten humor and wit. As he wiped the bear grease off on his fancy black breeches, he smiled.

"Pleased to meet you, gentlemen. Now, will someone tell me just where I am?"


	9. Chapter 9

Chapter Nine

The stranger's breathing had grown painful to listen to. Rebecca Boone was all too familiar with the sound of a death rattle. She was sure she was hearing it now.

And there was nothing she could do.

Becky remained firmly bound to the wooden chair Tume had placed her in. As the black man left the cabin, he had shot her a look that dared her to _try_ and escape. She didn't understand why the stranger had taken Mingo and left her behind, but it didn't matter. What mattered was that a man was dying, in her home, and she was powerless to help. A man or…what did Tume call him. A _Vulcan?_ Becky's copper brows knit together as she sought to remember where she had heard that word. Then she had it. The last Christmas Mingo had given a finely bound and profusely illustrated leather tome to Israel. She had allowed her son to accept the gift out of deference to their friend, but frowned at the subject matter, which was the gods of Greece and Rome. Though she had nothing against a classical education, her young son had little need to learn about other _gods_ than his own _._ Still, the book was beautiful and – in spite of herself – one day she had opened it and begun skimming through its vellum pages. She remembered Zeus with his lightning bolts and Hermes, with those funny little wings on his ankles. And Vulcan. Vulcan was the god of fire and metalworking, of the smith and forge. Becky's deep blue eyes flicked to the bed she shared with Dan where her unexpected visitor lay fighting for his life. Could Tume's reference be to that? She didn't see how it could apply, but if not, then to what _did_ it refer? In the book Vulcan had been an ugly creature, disfigured by his craft. That certainly wasn't true of the stranger. From what she had seen of him, he appeared quite attractive, though that strange blood of his had made her wonder if perhaps – as Mingo sometimes put it – there _was_ more in heaven and earth than she could dream of.

Becky winced as her attention returned to the man on the bed. He had become agitated and, surprisingly, was trying to speak. Between ragged gasps, the words came quietly and quickly, almost as if he had slipped into a delirium. She couldn't catch all of them, but there was no missing the desperation in his tone.

"…there is…no pain. _Pain._ No! I…cannot…. I am a _Vulcan._ I can not. I _will_ not…." The sound of the breath he drew rattled through the near empty cabin. "I must…wake. I must…. No. I cannot wake. Sleep…. I must sleep. _Forever_ sleep…."

Becky couldn't stand it. No one was going to die in her home if there was anything _she_ could do about it! Frantically, she tested the ropes that bound her elbows and ankles. Unfortunately, they had been _well_ tied. She scowled, furious with herself that she could think of nothing to do. Chewing her lip, Becky quieted her heart and asked her God for guidance. Against the sound of the man's labored breathing, it was hard to think, but suddenly – she remembered. One of the chairs butted up against the table had a top rail that was loose. The battered piece of wood had slipped in and out a dozen times. She had given Dan grief over it, insisting he fix it before it fell apart and one of the children was hurt.

Did she dare to hope that she was strapped to that _particular_ chair?

Becky's arms had been passed through the chair back and around the splat, and then bound at the elbows behind it. If she could just manage to lift her body up without knocking the chair over, she might be able to pop the top rail off and get free of both the chair _and_ the ropes. Once her hands were free, she could untie her legs and then make her way to the stranger's side.

Becky blew out a puff of air, driving her coppery bangs upward. What she would do once she got there she had _no_ idea, but that wasn't about to stop her from trying.

Since she was gagged, she couldn't let the dying man know what she was doing, or offer any encouragement. Still, as she worked her arms up the chair and felt the rail give way, Becky couldn't help but _think_ the words she could not say _. Hold on_ , she pleaded. _Hold on! Don't give up. Just a minute more…._

Even as the top rail hit the cabin floor with a loud thud and she fought for balance, Becky froze. An answer had formed in her mind.

 _No use. Save yourself. Go._

The ropes, which had been wrapped tightly around her elbows, fell from her slender wrists to strike the floor as she repositioned herself on the chair. She swallowed hard as she stared at the bed, mesmerized. _No_ , she sent back. _No. I won't let you die._

 _Illogical. I am already dead._

He was giving up. Somehow, she knew it, as surely as if his lips had parted and he had told her.

 _Not in my house!_ she shot back.

Shaken from her surprise, Becky leaned down and quickly untied her feet. A dozen determined strides took her to the man's side. Once there, she reached up and removed the filthy gag from her mouth and threw it to the floor.

"What must I do?" she demanded, speaking out loud. "Tell me!"

The stranger lay still as death. The early morning light that fell through the open window shone on a sallow face released from this world's pain. Or so she thought. Just as Becky decided she had come too late, the man's lean form shuddered and he drew a convulsive breath. She hesitated to touch him, remembering all too clearly the mystery of his blood that had _so_ frightened her before. Then her mother's heart won out. Becky leaned forward and gently placed a hand on the side of his bruised and battered face.

The contact was _electric._

Becky blinked and stumbled back. The cabin was gone. It was as if she stood outside at the dawning of a rain-soaked day, adrift in a mist of fog. Then, from out of the mist, a man came. He stood before her, his body erect; his hands clasped behind his back. The man's clothing – black pants and boots, topped by a soft shirt of shimmering blue with some sort emblem and military braid on the sleeves – was strange to say the least. The fabric seemed to mimic his form and had no warp or weft that she could see. Even stranger was the man himself. He was tall, though not so tall as Dan. His hair was black as Mingo's, but cut short, revealing the lean angular bones of his face. Like the Cherokee, the man's eyes were nearly black, but where Mingo's eyes shone with spirit and amusement, this man's were sharp as a hawk's and keen as the cut of a knife. Becky's gaze met his, and then went past it to the one feature she had noticed before – a pair of impossibly pointed ears. As Becky drew a deep, steadying breath, the stranger's lips parted – not to speak, but with a slight wry twist that was not quite a grin.

 _Mrs. Boone._

 _Who_ , she asked, _what are you?_

 _I am Spock. I am…a traveler. I regret the inconvenience my presence has caused you and your family. It was not my choice to place you in danger. However, as I am dead, the matter shall soon be remedied._

 _You are not dead!_ she sent back.

 _A difference which makes no difference,_ is _no difference,_ he remarked almost casually.

 _You cannot want to die,_ Becky insisted.

 _Regrettably, I find I have no choice. There is no one here who can perform the needed task –_

 _I am here!_ she shouted.

 _Mrs. Boone, your strength would prove ineffectual. The process Tume started when he called me out of the healing trance cannot be subverted. If I am not awakened soon, then I must die._

 _What will it take to wake you?_ she asked. Becky blinked again, and in her mind she saw the answer. This man, lying in a strange cold place filled with strange cold beds and blinking lights. Another man stood over him, hitting him, striking him – _beating_ him. _No!_ she gasped. She saw the stranger reach out and catch his attacker's arm. Then she heard him thank him.

 _It is my way,_ he said, offering no explanation. _It is the way of my people._

Becky shivered. _Let me try._

 _You are female. A female humanoid will not prove strong enough –_ The man started at her rash thought. One elegant eyebrow winged toward his perfect hair. _A colorful epithet_ , _Mrs. Boone,_ he mused.

She blushed. Even though she knew no word had escaped her lips, Becky felt as if it had – and that she needed to go to the church and ask for forgiveness for thinking it.

 _Men,_ she huffed. _You are all alike._

Spock's amusement surprised her. It was gentle and filled with an unexplained affection. For a moment she was aware of an image – a woman like her but with dark upswept hair, bending over to kiss the ebon head of a small intense boy who sported a set of elegantly pointed ears.

 _You are much like her,_ he admitted, once again in control. Strong. Stubborn. Unbending and ever flexible. Safe and secure.

 _Your mother_. _Amanda._ Becky latched on to the memory and would not let him release it. _She would want you to live! I would not want my son to give up. Don't give up. Spock, don't give up!_

He rejected that. _It is not logical to hope –_

 _Hope is_ not _logical_ , Becky replied.

Spock's keen eyes locked on hers. For a moment the gray mist overwhelmed him, taking him from her sight. Then, slowly, he stepped forward and gave the slightest nod.

 _I will try._

Becky gasped and reared back, breaking the physical and mental link she shared with Spock. As she did, he stirred. The Vulcan shifted as if in great pain and one trembling hand reached toward her.

"Strike me!" he commanded as he closed it on her wrist with bone-crunching force.

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Daniel Boone's long strides took him quickly toward his cabin. Everything he had seen in the last few hours had raised the hackles on the back of his neck, and no matter _how_ fast he traveled, he feared somehow he was going to be too late. After taking Becky and Israel to the fort, he had started out to track down Mingo. While his Cherokee friend was one of the most competent men he knew, Mingo was also – of _all_ of God's creatures – the one most likely to stumble into trouble with his eyes wide open. Dan pursed his lips as he continued to move forward. Every man had _two_ inner voices. One was wise and the other, well, a little bit reckless. There were times when the reckless voice was the one a man _had_ to heed – but not _every_ time, and not when that wise voice was shouting to the heavens that there was danger ahead.

Sometimes he wondered if Mingo was deaf.

Dan grinned in spite of his growing fear. How many times had Becky accused him of the same thing?

Dear Lord, Becky….

The cabin was in sight now. The door was ajar, and there was no welcoming light shining from the windows. Gripping Ticklicker in fingers that were just a mite sweaty, Dan continued on.

He had followed Mingo's trail easy enough and had made it about halfway to the Shawnee lands when his friend's tracks had suddenly doubled back. Searching the ground, Dan had quickly realized that the Cherokee warrior was headed for the cabin – and was no longer alone. Mingo had been helping someone else; a man, most likely. At first there had been two sets of prints. Then toward the end, there was only one and it was deeper. The only consolation, Dan thought as he reached the path that led to the door of his cabin was that – this time – it was Mingo doingthe carrying! Abruptly, the tall frontiersman halted. He dropped to the ground at the edge of the porch and quickly examined it. There were at least a half dozen tracks crossing over the other pair. A group of men had been waiting in the shadows. They'd stood and watched for a while, and then gone away. And they hadn't left empty-handed. Something or some _one_ had been dragged along the ground.

Dan hesitated, checking for telltale signs of blood.

It was then he heard his wife cry out.

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Becky's copper hair hung in sweat-soaked hanks before her face. Her stained calico dress was wet through as were all the underpinnings beneath. She was shaking so hard she could barely raise a hand, and yet she did so again. _Again_ , she struck the traveler with all her strength, jarring her body and his – but _still_ it wasn't enough. At first it had seemed that Spock would rouse, but now his breathing had grown even more shallow. With each passing second he slipped farther away. If she didn't do _something_ , it seemed he would fall into a deep sleep from which he would never wake.

"Spock!" she sobbed as her aching fingers gripped his tattered black shirt and shook him. "Spock, wake up! _Please_ …."

Becky halted in terror at the sound of the cabin door scraping across the wooden floor. She released Spock and turned sharply, fearing their tormentor had come back. A cry escaped her and a wave of blackness nearly overcame her when she realized it was not Tume.

It was Dan.

Her husband caught her in his arms before she could strike the floor.

"Becky!" Dan's hand caressed her face. He pulled her tightly to him. "Becky, what in the name of – "

She reached up and touched his stubbled cheek, making certain he was real. Dan's face was puzzled. It took her a second to remember where she was and what she had been doing. Pushing him away, she cried out, "Dan! Dan, help me up. Spock will die if we don't help him!"

"Spock?" he asked, his hazel eyes narrowing in confusion. "Who – "

"The man on the bed!" Becky kept hold of her husband's hand and drew him up with her. Shoving him toward it, she cried, "You have to strike him, Dan! You're strong! Hit him and wake him up!"

Dan was like a mountain. He didn't move. "Becky, what?"

"There's no time!" she all but shrieked. Pointing to the man on the bed, she tried to explain the unexplainable. "Spock needs to wake up, Dan. He can't do it on his own. He needs you to hit him. Hit him _hard_ , Dan, with all your strength!"

Her husband looked at the traveler, and then at her. She could tell. Dan thought she had lost her mind.

Maybe she had.

"Dan, please…."

Even as she pleaded, a second voice was added to her own. Weak. Barely audible, but there. "Strike me…." Spock's rasped. "Now! Or…it will be too…late."

One of the things that had drawn Rebecca Bryan to Daniel Boone was how firmly his feet were planted in the earth. Dan didn't hold with nonsense and, though a religious man, had little time for anything that even _remotely_ reeked of the mystic or supernatural. She watched as her husband's nature warred with his love for her.

As she had known it would, in the end his faith in her won out.

"Becky?"

" _Do it, Dan!"_

His brown eyebrows lifted with puzzlement and Dan shrugged his broad shoulders. Then he caught Spock by his shirt and lifted him partially up and struck him.

"Harder!" the Vulcan demanded; his voice ice breaking on stone.

Dan winced. He struck him harder, but not as hard as she knew he could.

"With all your strength," the traveler gasped. "Do it now!"

Her husband's lips quirked with a wry twist and he did as he was told, striking the man so hard the sound of the blow rang through the cabin. He did it again. And a third time. As Dan pulled his arm back to make it four, Spock's hand shot out and caught his, staying it as easily as if her six foot five husband had been a child.

Spock drew a deep breath and looked up.

"Thank you, Mr. Boone. That will be quite sufficient."

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Daniel Boone didn't move. He looked from the stranger in his bed to his arm, which was held, suspended in mid-air. Never in his life had he felt such tremendous strength – and it was coming from what, only moments before, appeared to be a dying man.

The stranger held him for a moment longer and then shuddered and released him. Falling back to the bed, Spock closed his eyes for a moment – as if gathering strength – and then began to push himself up as though he intended to rise.

"Now, hold on there, friend," Dan warned, holding the injured man back even though he knew that strength could force him to retreat. "You ain't goin' anywhere."

Keen black-brown eyes met his. They were somewhat almond-shaped. The black brows slanted above them gave the stranger an almost satyric look. So did his _ears_. Dan read intelligence and determination in the man's gaze. He also read pain. A _great_ deal of it.

"If you don't mind my sayin' so," the frontiersman continued, showing a lopsided grin. "You don't look so good."

One black brow arched. "I fail to see what my appearance has to do with current circumstances." The stranger glanced at himself. "My attire, while somewhat tatterdemalion is not the – "

"I ain't talkin' about your attire." Dan backed away. "It's clear you ain't well."

The man's brow wrinkled. "I _'ain't'_?" He paused and those dark eyes grew distant. A moment later, they lit with understanding. "Ah, I see. A late eighteenth, early nineteenth century corruption of 'I am not'…" Sitting up and tossing his long legs over the edge of the bed, Spock continued, "I assure you that I am quite 'well', Mr. Boone. I will trouble you no – "

Dan caught him before he hit the floor. Spock's legs had buckled under him and a pale sheen of sweat broken out on his oddly-tinged greenish-tan skin. The frontiersman held the stranger's thin frame up for a moment – noting with astonishment the compact muscles he felt through the odd fabric – and then eased him back onto a corner of the bed.

"You'd be a mite less trouble if you stayed put until you could hold your own," Dan said softly.

Spock looked a little sheepish – and, curiously, ashamed. "It is unfortunate, but I believe I do require a moment or two of rest to regain my equilibrium."

Unexpectedly, Dan felt Becky's warm presence at his side. His wife hugged him quickly and then moved past him to confront the stranger. "Spock, I thought you said the trance would heal you. You are _not_ healed."

"I was awakened too early." Each breath still came hard, as though he labored to take it. "I will continue to heal, but at a slower pace now that my mind must be occupied with other matters…." The stranger paused, as if sensing he had said too much. Spock's near black eyes flicked to Becky. There was an unspoken plea in them. "I _must_ go."

"You can't," she countered sharply. "Alone, you'll _die._ Dead you won't be of any help to your friend. Will you?"

The stranger's lips quirked with the ghost of a smile. "A most _logical_ deduction, Rebecca."

Looking from one of them to the other, Dan frowned. He couldn't help it. This man was a complete stranger to him and yet, it seemed, Spock was on near _intimate_ terms with his wife. The frontiersman could sense it in their speech; could feel it in the way Becky looked at the man and in how she approached him – as if she _cared._ What was going on here?

And what in the name of all that was _holy_ was wrong with the man's ears?

As if sensing his thoughts, the stranger reached up. The fingers of one hand moved toward his ear, but then landed on his neck instead. As Spock massaged it, he cocked his head at an angle and an expression came over his face that reminded Dan uncomfortably of Mingo at his orneriest.

"I believe," Spock began, "that the indigenous population of this continent often employs self-mutilation as a matter of course, in concert with their religious beliefs. My…tribe…has similar cultural practices that are reflected in the shape of my ears…." He paused. "Mister Boone? Are you all right?"

Dan jerked, realizing his eyes must have glazed over. Then he grinned. "Don't tell me," he laughed in spite of everything. "Your _tribe_ comes from Oxford, don't it?"

Spock's brows peaked in puzzlement. "Oxford?"

Dan started to explain, but stopped as he felt Becky's fingers tighten on his arm. When he turned to look at her, fear clouded her eyes. "What is it, darlin'?" he asked.

His wife's gaze took in their enigmatic guest; then she turned them on him. "The men who did this to Spock. Dan, they have Mingo."

"Which is why," their guest announced with a sigh as he rose once again from the bedstead and this time managed to keep his feet, "I must delay no longer. Not only is my companion missing, but there is a debt that must be paid."

"Your companion?" Dan asked.

"A young woman." Spock's eyes went blank again, this time for only an instant. "A… _negress_ , I believe you would say."

Dan felt his wife stiffen. So there were _some_ things Becky didn't know. A negro woman and a… _what?,_ Dan mused. Traveling together. He wondered for what was probably the tenth time who this man was and what he was doing here, near Boonesborough.

"Well, friend," Dan said at last. "I might have some bad news for you. There's word slavers are working in this area. One of old Ben Collin's slaves went missing yesterday. These out-of-towners ain't too _particular_ who they take. If the woman is your property, they won't pay that no mind – "

Spock's black brows reached his hair this time. _"Slavers?"_ He spoke the word as if it were all the evils of the world wrapped into one.

Which it was.

"Yep."

"This is most unfortunate," Spock murmured, almost to himself. "The lieutenant is not my…." He stopped, glanced at them, and frowned. "Nyota is not my _property_ , she is my companion. She is a…freewoman. And while she is quite competent and more than capable of taking care of herself under normal circumstances, the experience of such men may prove more than sufficient to overcome her natural abilities. What would they do with her, were she taken?"

"Take her farther south," Becky answered, breathless. "Sell her there."

A crisp anger, quickly suppressed, flashed through the injured man's eyes. "I must find her," Spock announced. Pressing past them, he headed for the door. He made it to the chair beside the door before he had to halt and catch hold of it for support. Spock paused for a moment to catch his breath and then reached for the latch.

As Dan watched him, a bemused look on his face, Becky touched his arm and nodded toward the stranger who was even now stumbling out into the night.

"Dan…."

He turned toward her, his face deadly serious. "Becky, there's one thing I gotta ask you before I go traipsing off after that man."

Her blue eyes went wide. "What? What is it?"

"You sure Spock ain't half Cherokee?"


	10. Chapter 10

Chapter Ten

The compact form of the ship's acting medical officer, Dr. Geoffrey M'Benga, stood in the sickbay of the starship Enterprise next to a diagnostic bed. He was scratching his head. James T. Kirk wanted to do the same thing – scratch his head, that was – but he knew it wasn't regulation. Not that regulations controlled his actions, but at this moment the merest suggestion that he, as Captain of the Enterprise, was experiencing any confusion or doubt would seriously undermine the ship's already seriously undermined confidence and further effect his crew's abilities to perform their duties.

Chief Engineer Montgomery Scott lay in one bed, still recovering from the explosion that had taken place in engineering. That was bad enough. Next to him, on the other side of M'Benga, was Hikaru Sulu.

Janice Rand had found Sulu when she went to consult with the off-duty helmsman about a beloved plant that was not doing well. She had talked to Sulu only fifteen minutes before and he was expecting her. But when she got to his cabin, the door had been locked and she received no answer to her hail. Worried, Rand had called security and had them force the door. Again, it appeared to be an accident. Or, as in engineering, at least it had appeared that way at first. They found the helmsman just outside the entry to the sonic shower. He was lying on the floor, partially clothed, and seemed to have fallen and struck his head on the hard edge of a cabinet. Once Dr. M'Benga had had time to thoroughly examine the patient, he declared otherwise. The blow, he said, had all the marks of deliberate blunt force trauma.

 _Someone_ was trying to kill his crew.

Kirk raised a hand to his forehead and kneaded it like bread. At least, he thought they were. Sulu and Scotty were still _alive_. Were the assassins that incompetent?

Then again, there were all of those dead men in engineering.

Abruptly, Kirk realized Dr. M'Benga had come to his side. "Sulu?" he asked, tight-lipped.

The black man looked thoughtful. But then the surgeon _always_ looked thoughtful, even when selecting what soup he would have for lunch. "Thanks to the brain trauma techniques I learned on Vulcan, I can say with confidence that Hikaru will pull through without any permanent damage," he said at last.

The captain nodded, grateful. He shifted uncomfortably, needing to, but not wanting to move on to another subject that troubled him. "Any word of McCoy?"

The doctor shook his head.

Like Spock and Uhura, his old friend seemed to have vanished into thin air. "What is going on on this ship?" Kirk snapped in frustration.

In Vulcan fashion M'Benga's left eyebrow lifted. "If that is an actual query, Captain, I – "

Kirk waved him off. "Thank you, Doctor. Keep me informed. I'll be in my cabin," was all he said before moving through the door and past the security guards he had posted there. M'Benga's tone and inflection reminded him of his _other_ problem – Spock and Uhura. They were missing as well and presumed lost in the past. If something happened to DeSalle, nearly the whole bridge crew was going to be _AWOL_ ….

James Kirk's lean form halted abruptly as the truth struck him like a hand, nearly causing a collision with a medic hurrying toward sickbay. Chagrined, the young man excused himself and then, after showing his pass to the guards, jumped through the whooshing doors. Kirk stared after him, angry and disgusted with himself that it had taken him _so_ long to see the pattern. Assuming the attack in engineering had been aimed at Scotty alone, every crewmember who had been inured or gone missing was part of the regular bridge crew. Scot. Sulu. Uhura. Spock. McCoy, of course, was not officially a part of the bridge crew, but he was always there in a crisis. What if someone wanted to erase some knowledge that was common to them all? Some experience they had shared? What if – like in those old fashioned _who-dunnits_ of the twentieth century – someone was working to eliminate them one by one? Kirk glanced at the guard. He had posted the men outside of the sickbay to assure that another attempt would not be made on Scotty, and now, on Sulu. So far none had been. With the disappearance of Spock, Uhura, and McCoy, and Sulu and Scot's attacks, that left only one person who was a _constant_ on the bridge unscathed.

And that was him.

Even though he had told DeSalle that he was headed for his quarters, Jim Kirk prowled the halls of his ship instead of going to his cabin. His footsteps led him, inevitably, to the part of the deck where his senior officers were quartered. Pausing outside Spock's door, he hesitated. The consummate Vulcan, he knew, never locked his door. Seeking something – enlightenment, hope, _direction_ – the captain of the Enterprise ordered the door of his first officer's quarters to open and stepped inside.

And was immediately slapped in the face by the artificial gravity and hot arid atmosphere that mimicked Spock's home world. Since his first officer had no reason to expect anyone to be in his rooms while he was away, he had not bothered to alter it and make the area more tolerable to a human. As sweat beaded instantly on his forehead and his heart rate increased, Kirk was reminded of how uncomfortable Spock must be most of the time. Having chosen to live among humans, the Vulcan was forced to daily endure temperatures that, to him, must have amounted to being thrown outside in the dead of winter without a coat.

Kirk failed to suppress a smile as he thought of his stoic first officer wearing a down jacket, mittens, and ear muffs.

Lord, he missed the Vulcan!

Turning the chair at Spock's computer station around, Kirk threw his body into it and stared at the blank screen. The lights had not come on when he entered and he didn't tell them too. Instead, he sat in the semi-dark thinking. After a few minutes his thoughts and his eyes began to roam. His gaze went from the deadly weapons mounted on the wall to the odd statue behind the screen that pulsed with an ancient fire. As Spock had never enlightened him, he could only assume it some sort of Vulcan god. Sitting here made him feel a little better, but the room was empty. As it was, he was without his friend. Drawing a deep breath, Kirk performed a logical task – he asked himself what he had hoped to find here. Inspiration? Perhaps. Or a connection, however tenuous to the processes of that _amazing_ mind? What would Spock do, he wondered? How would that sharp analytical mind of his go about finding an answer?

Kirk reached forward and gripped the edge of the table. First, review the facts.

Spock and Uhura, along with Lt. Deevers, had been traveling as scheduled to a conference on Earth when their shuttle encountered an anomaly in space and they disappeared. Speculation ran to the fact that they might have been transported into the past, though there was no proof of that as yet. All he knew was that they were gone.

Dr. McCoy had left the briefing room and gone to his quarters and simply vanished.

Scotty and Sulu, as well as the others in engineering, had been murderously attacked, though both men had survived – at least so far. This suggested that their attacker was not very sophisticated, or skilled. Or that they did not intend to kill, but only warn. Or create confusion. Or that someone _else_ had intervened and prevented the murders from taking place.

And it seemed the murderous intent was aimed exclusively at the best and brightest of the bridge crew.

Jim released his grip. He raised his hands to his face and rubbed his temples hard. Lord, he was tired! Leaning back in the chair, Kirk stared through the screen at the fire that pulsed in the back of the Vulcan's quarters. It had the beat of a heart. One. Two. One. Two. He blinked and straightened up, but did not move. One. Two. One. Two. One….

Before Jim Kirk knew it, he had given in to human weakness and fallen fast asleep.

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Farther along Deck 5, which housed the senior officers' quarters, a furtive figure garbed in black stalked the corridor. Tall, well-muscled, _humanoid_ but not human, with black hair and pointed ears, it passed like a shadow, slowing only as it reached the captain's quarters. Halting just beside the door, it held out a hand. Its lean body remained still, but the hand began to tremble and then to shake so fast it became invisible. Moving outside of time, five supple fingers slipped through the seemingly solid metal wall.

Manipulating the environmental controls was child's play. The ship's computer – another child – had given up the information that the captain of the Enterprise was currently off duty, and Kirk's last recorded message indicated he would be in his quarters. The room's controls were set for the comfort and continuation of an oxygen-breather. It took nothing to convince the computer that the inhabitant within breathed methane instead.

A slow sneer twisted the thin lips of the time traveler. James T. Kirk, instigator of galactic terror and death, would soon be dead himself.

Now, on to mop up those other _loose_ ends….

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

The clarion sound of a red alert brought Kirk abruptly to his feet. For a moment he was disoriented. Then he remembered he was in Spock's quarters. The heat and intensity of the artificially induced Vulcan atmosphere must have lulled him to sleep. Jamming his hand against the console, he punched the appropriate button and shouted into the receiver.

"Kirk to bridge! Who issued a red alert?"

There was a pause and then DeSalle – just about the only bridge officer left of any standing – asked, "Captain? Is that you?"

Kirk could hear real relief in the navigator's voice. "Yes, it's me. What is going on?"

"Sir, we thought…." DeSalle paused. When he continued it was with the underlying tone of a grin. "Thank God, sir! We thought you were dead."

 _Dead?_ Kirk frowned. "Explain."

"Your quarters, sir. You said you had gone to them."

"So?"

"They've been flooded with methane gas, sir. It was only detected when it seeped into the corridor outside and an alarm was raised. We had assumed…."

So it had happened at last. An attempt on him. Kirk wiped sweat from his brow and flapped his shirt. It was a _dark_ gold now from perspiration. "I'm in Mr. Spock's quarters." He paused, realizing how odd that sounded. "I came here for…inspiration," he added with chagrin.

Completely military DeSalle responded, "Yes, sir. And may I say, thank goodness, sir. Orders?"

He frowned. "Have you checked with sickbay?" Did this mean there had been another attempt on Scotty or Sulu?

"Everything is okay, sir. For now at least."

Kirk thought furiously. "All right. Reduce the alert to yellow. I'm on my way."

"Yes, sir." He heard DeSalle's unspoken reply that he was _more_ than ready to relinquish command. "Looking forward to seeing you. Sir."

The captain toggled the switch that cut off communications. He ran a hand over his brow again and then glanced at the shrine near the back of Spock's quarters. The Vulcan, though denying the talent, was consummate at inferring patterns – in other words, making intuitive leaps – from what appeared to be disconnected events; patterns, that often led to solving seemingly insoluble situations. Kirk _hated_ insoluble situations. Spock found them a challenge.

With one last glance – and sigh – he prepared to exit the room.

"You miss him," a soft voice remarked.

Kirk was instantly alert. He pivoted, searching the dark corners of the room, but came up with nothing. "Show yourself!" he commanded.

"For what purpose?"

He scowled. "Why speak to me if you won't let me _see_ you?"

"You have divined, have you not, what is happening aboard your ship?"

"Someone is trying to kill my bridge crew," he responded instantly.

"And you."

"I know that!" Kirk whirled in a circle. "Why?"

" 'Time flies, death urges, knells call, Heaven invites, Hell threatens'," the voice responded.

Spock could have placed the quote. _Would_ have placed it and enjoyed the challenge. To Kirk, the evasive answer was infuriating. "Speak plainly!" he demanded.

"I have. I do. I shall."

"What does that mean?" Kirk shifted in front of the computer station, still looking.

"You have rushed in where angels fear to tread, James T. Kirk. Do you know the tale of Pandora?"

He frowned. It was a Greek myth, in which a woman opened a box and loosed upon the world all of the horrors it could know – despair, grief, hopelessness. "Yes," he said warily. "Are you comparing me to Pandora?"

"I am."

"Why?" he snapped.

"You have cried havoc and let slip the dogs of war."

He knew that one. _Julius Caesar._ "What war?"

Out of the shadows of Spock's quarters, from behind the screen that shielded the pulsing, burning shrine, a figure emerged. He thought it was female, though it was so slender and androgynous he could not be sure. Still, the _sense_ of it was feminine. "Who are you?" Kirk asked. "What are you talking about?"

A willowy form, white haired and with near white skin, came to stand before him. The light of Spock's Vulcan altar painted her a hellish orange.

"War, James Kirk. One that must end."

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Dr. Geoffrey M'Benga stood, electronic clipboard in hand, frowning over the life support readings of both Chief engineer Scot and Lt. Sulu. Both men were out of danger, but still far from well. The helmsman had awakened once, disoriented, and tried to get up from his bed. M'Benga had sedated him and ordered restraints.

He was not about to have anyone _else_ go missing.

The Enterprise's current chief medical officer glanced at the door of his sickbay. Just outside, he knew, two of the Enterprise's security officers waited and watched. He had had complaints all day from nurses, orderlies and medics. They had practically had to stand on their heads to enter, showing passes and going through retinal and other scans in order to have their identity verified beyond a doubt before they could. Now, at last, it was false night on the great ship and the constant traffic in and out of sickbay had blessedly slowed to a crawl. He was alone with the exception of his patients – and the corpses that awaited autopsy in the stasis room.

M'Benga had not had time to get to them and, as senior officer on ship, he insisted on doing so himself. There were too many odd things happening on the Enterprise to chance leaving such an important duty to an assistant. The black doctor glanced at the sealed room and sighed. He really should get to it. The men who had died deserved it _and_ the respect that would come from a proper _burial_ in space.

Running a hand over his eyes, Geoffrey M'Benga sought to banish the fatigue from them. Without McCoy, he had been forced to pull extra duty and was exhausted. Exhausted men, he knew, made mistakes – mistakes that could cost even _more_ lives.

Crossing to the desk, M'Benga placed the electronic clipboard on it and then lowered himself into the chair the crusty Georgian doctor usually occupied. Closing his eyes and steepling his elegant fingers, he sought his center as he had been taught on Vulcan. That ancient race had much to offer. When chaos threatened, there was the peace and the escape of logic. Though he had not mastered the techniques – no _human_ truly could – he had learned in his own way to connect with an inner place where turmoil was banished and rest could be found while still managing to remain alert and responsive to the world around him.

It was while in this mode that he realized he was no longer alone.

Without moving, Dr. M'Benga opened his eyes. Out of the corner of one he saw a tall lean figure moving toward the area where the two injured officers lay. The man was dressed all in black. In fact, it looked like he wore standard-issued trousers and the black singlet often adopted by members of the crew. His hair was black and worn in the Vulcan style, if a little long.

Was it…. Could it be Spock?

Dr. M'Benga remained completely still – except for one finger that he used to toggle the intercom button. He hoped he had done it right and that he had opened a wide channel that would echo through at least a few of the ship's deserted corridors. With his eyes partially closed, the doctor followed the Vulcanoidas he halted by the beds and turned his gaze to the scanners that beeped and blinked above Scot and Sulu's heads. There was a rumor making the rounds of the ship that Spock had gone missing along with Nyota Uhura. As he had not been at any of the briefings, he did not know if it was true. He had been too busy and too concerned about Scot and Sulu. The few words he had exchanged with the captain seemed to lend credence to the fact. If it _was_ the case, then this could _not_ be Spock.

And if it wasn't Spock, then what was some unknown Vulcanoid doing on the ship, and what were the intruder's intentions toward his patients?

Dr. M'Benga rose to his feet and opened his mouth to speak.

"This does not concern you, doctor," the man said employing the even, measured tones most often associated with the ship's first officer.

"Who are you?" M'Benga asked even as he eyed the winking light, making certain the intercom was open and functioning. Hopefully someone, some _where_ was listening. "What do you want?"

The intruder turned on his heel to face him. Though he bore a resemblance to Spock, he was obviously _not_ the Enterprise's first officer. This man was shorter and slightly more muscular. His hair was black, but his skin was decidedly bronze in tone. The upswept black eyebrows were the same, but the eyes they framed were not the eyes of a thousand years of peace. They were those of a millennia of war.

The man was Romulan.

The intruder's lips unexpectedly curled in a sneer. Another thing that was definitely _not_ Vulcan. "What do I want?" the Romulan answered matter-of-factly, "Why, I want them dead. I have come here to finish what was interrupted."

"You did this? _You_ harmed these men?" M'Benga asked, barely restraining the fury in his voice. Take your time. Draw him out, he thought. Surely security was on its way. "Why? What have they done? Explain it to me."

"They are criminals," the Romulan replied, as if those few words explained everything.

"Criminals?" The doctor was astounded and it showed in his voice. " _You_ are the criminal!"

The Romulan moved with catlike speed. Quicker than thought he was at the doctor's side and had taken him by the throat. The man was strong – _stronger_ , in fact, than Spock. He could sense a crushing power in the bronze fingers that had already tasted the triumph of bringing death. "What do you know, human?" the intruder hissed as those fingers dug into M'Benga's flesh, choking him. "You know _nothing!_ If you had _any_ idea – if you even dared to _dream_ of what these men have done – you would throttle them yourself while they slept!"

M'Benga was close to blacking out. Involuntarily, his eyes flicked to the blinking light on the desk behind him. Why had no one come? Then, realizing his mistake, his gaze returned to the Romulan who was killing him.

But not quickly _enough._

The Romulan's grip tightened. _"What have you done?"_ he snarled.

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

James Kirk was on the move. He leapt out of the turbolift and ran for all he was worth down the Deck 6 corridor toward sickbay. His mind was still reeling from what the willowy woman had told him before she vanished. If true, then the loss of the _Columbus_ with Spock and Uhura aboard, Dr. McCoy's disappearance, and the attempts on his crews' lives _were_ all connected. Even more than that, they were all part of a galactic war waged by an unknown alien race, that threatened the very existence of the Federation – at least as they knew it.

He had awakened as if from a dream to find himself once again alone in Spock's quarters. As he stood there, wondering if what he had seen and heard was real, Dr. M'Benga's voice had filtered into his consciousness. Stepping into the corridor, he had heard only the final words spoken by the doctor and the intruder. They had been _more_ than enough. As he began to run, he had flipped open his communicator and tried to make contact with the security guards he'd left posted outside the sickbay's doors. As expected, there had been no response.

Kirk skidded to a halt and, clinging to the shadows of the ship's false night, peered around the corner. The guards were there, lying on their backs on the deck. He approached the pair stealthily and pressed three fingers to the first man's neck. It was broken and McCree was dead. Jennings moaned. So he was alive at least, though obviously badly hurt. Stepping over them, Kirk moved toward the door. Gripping his phaser tightly, he prepared himself for the moment when it would _whoosh_ open.

Nothing happened.

Opening his communicator again, Kirk barked an order sharply, "Security! This is the captain. Override the controls to the main sickbay door! Get me in there!"

There was a moment of silence and then an unknown, but slightly tremulous voice replied. "Aye, aye, sir. Manual override… _now!"_

Kirk drew a deep breath as the aqua doors slid aside and jumped through only to find the normal sterile atmosphere of the sickbay replaced by a whirlwind of light and noise. On the floor, which had grown dark as the night sky and seemed to belong to another universe, lay Dr. M'Benga. He couldn't tell if the doctor was alive or dead. Above the black man's prone form a figure stood, comfortably occupying the heart of the unnatural storm. For just a second Kirk thought it was Spock, somehow miraculously returned. Then he knew better. In an instant, he recognized what the presence of the Vulcanoid meant.

He was one of the ones trying to kill them.

The Vulcanoid's face framed his disappointment. "How? How did you escape?" the intruder spat even as the effect, which Kirk now realized must be one of the time tubes the willowy alien had told him about, began to swallow him.

Kirk glanced at his phaser, but tossed it away. The Vulcanoid was disappearing into time. He doubted it would be of any use. At that moment, James T. Kirk, captain of the starship Enterprise, made one of those impulsive, instinctive, and seemingly reckless decisions that he was so famous – and _infamous_ for. Drawing a deep breath, he sprang forward and locked the intruder in a bear hug.

Kirk could only hope _this_ rash decision worked out as well as all the others.


	11. Chapter 11

Chapter Eleven

It wasn't often Daniel Boone had met a man who could outpace him. The frontiersman's long-legged stride – with his height topping off at near six and a half feet – left most men _far_ behind. Spock, though several inches shorter in height _and_ leg length, was giving him a run for the money. The man moved with the grace and power of a panther in spite of the fact that he was still hurting from whatever had happened to him. Still, Dan had noticed, in the last hour or so the other man had begun to slow down. The frontiersman's lips twitched with a budding smile. The stranger's slender form, clad now in a plain shirt of blue cloth and a pair of breeches and boots that Dan had brought from the cabin, was only _five_ feet in front of him instead of fifty. As he watched Spock halted. The stranger shook his head as if arguing with someone, and then one trembling hand shot out as a brace against a nearby tree.

It only took Dan a second to catch up. "What's the matter?" he asked. And then added with a low whistle as he rounded the tree, "You don't look so good."

Spock was breathing hard. A slight sheen of sweat made his sallow skin appear brassy in the late afternoon light. A spasm clenched the stranger's jaw and he shook his head again, but said nothing. Spock's eyes closed briefly, as though he were concentrating, and then opened a moment later. In front of Dan's eyes he was transformed. The other man's ragged breathing had grown even and he had stopped trembling.

Still, the frontiersman wasn't fooled.

Dan leaned on Ticklicker's stock and waited until Spock met his gaze. "You think maybe you should take a rest?" he asked, his tone friendly but firm. "You look beat."

Spock's near black eyes crackled at what he apparently took as an insult. "I assure you, Mr. Boone, that I am fully functional and capable of continuing so long as it is necessary to locate both my missing comrade and yours. Until five point three six minutes ago, I was outpacing you by a distance of eighteen point seven five yards on average." He drew a breath. In spite of his best effort, Spock's lean body shook with it. Resolute, he ignored that fact. "If I comprehend the colloquial meaning of the word 'beat' in its eighteenth century North American context as pertaining to someone who is exhausted or worn out, then the facts obviously do not bear out your supposition."

Dan pursed his lips. After a minute, he asked, "You sure you ain't been to Oxford?"

One black eyebrow peaked toward Spock's perfect hair. He didn't sigh, but he came close. "Mr. Boone, I fail to see what relevance matriculating at a university in Oxford, England could possibly have on our current situation."

The frontiersman shrugged. "Maybe it don't. Then again, maybe it does." Dan's hazel eyes remained locked on the other man's face. He looked even more like Mingo now with a dark knitted cap covering those _ears_. "It's just you ain't the first soft spoken, so-well-educated he don't know how to use a contraction, bull-headed, prone to charge into danger without thinkin' and get blind-sided man I ever known."

Spock didn't quite frown. Then, "Ah. You are speaking of Mingo."

"I am." Dan nodded. "Can't count the times I've had to pull that Cherokee's bacon out of the fire." He looked thoughtful. "You reckon I'll have to do the same for you?"

"I beg your pardon?" Spock looked genuinely puzzled. "Bacon, from what limited time I have spent studying human's gastronomic preferences, is the salted and smoked meat from the back and sides of a pig. What exactly _is_ this 'bacon' which you refer to?" The stranger looked almost offended. "I assure you, though different from yours, there is nothing in my background that even remotely relates to any variety of Terran swine…."

The tall frontiersman continued to suppress the grin. "I thought maybe that was where you got those ears."

It took him a moment, but Spock finally figured out that his leg was being pulled by an expert. The corner of his mouth quirked. "I _too_ am reminded of someone I know. " The stranger paused. When he spoke his words, though controlled, rang with unspent emotion. "I only…hope that I will see him again one day."

"A friend of yours?" Dan asked, curious.

Spock met his stare. "My captain."

"So you're military? I suspected as much."

"Might I be informed of the logical progression of thought that brought you to that conclusion?"

Dan shrugged. "Been there myself. Sides, it ain't hard to see you're used to command."

The dark eyes crinkled with unspoken emotion. "Believe it or not, Mr. Boone, I _prefer_ to follow."

Dan studied him for a moment. "I believe it," he said at last, "if you got the right man _to_ follow. This captain of yours, he's such a man?"

"There is no better." All business once again, Spock straightened the blue shirt he wore and nodded toward the trees before them. "We should continue on. The men we seek – "

"Don't know we're seekin' them. And are most likely asleep themselves." Dan stepped forward and laid a hand on the other man's shoulder. "You should do the same. You can't do Nyota any good in the condition you're in. You're still hurtin'. There ain't no denyin' it in spite of what you say."

Spock had tensed at his touch, but did not throw it off. Nor did he challenge him. Instead, a shade of weariness entered his eyes and he actually listed to the right. "Perhaps you are right, Mr. Boone."

"Daniel."

The stranger pursed his lips and nodded. "Daniel. I _am_ fatigued. It is only logical that a period of sleep would prove beneficial both to me and to our mission." Spock's sharp gaze flicked to the star-speckled vault above their heads. "I estimate we have four point seven five nine minutes until sunrise. That should prove more than sufficient."

Dan wrinkled his brow. "Four point seven five nine?"

Spock appeared chagrinned. "Four and three-quarter hours."

The grin erupted. "Well then, why didn't you say so?"

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Spock opened his eyes precisely _one_ and three quarter hours later. He was far from rested, but that did not matter. Going after Lt. Uhura and Mingo did.

And he needed to do it alone.

Spock's sensitive hearing had detected the fact that Daniel Boone's breathing had evened and the frontiersman had finally fallen asleep. The Vulcan had not been sleeping, but spent the time meditating on the current situation while seeking to advance his body's repair. Neither venture had proven particularly successful. While the brief healing trance had nearly sealed the cut on his leg and eased the pain of the burns on his back and arms, it had done nothing to remedy the infection raging within him. For the moment, the sickness was held at bay by the power of his mind. But at some point – he didn't care to calculate how long it would be – it would claim its due. Neither had his Vulcan physiology been capable of producing the significant quantities of blood needed to replace that which he had lost. He was suffering from hypovolemic shock and its resulting symptomatic conditions. His usually hot skin was pale and curiously cool to the touch. He was weak and, at times, disoriented. Due to the fact that he was on his feet and not resting as the good doctor on the Enterprise would have insisted, the mental and emotional symptoms were also, most annoyingly, making rapid progress toward a disturbing end. His found himself confused at times – such as when he had almost blurted out Lt. Uhura's rank. He had begun, as well, to experience something he had not known since the dreadful time of the pon far. He was anxious and felt, at times, irritable to the point of anger. Of course, he suppressed all of these symptoms by employing the Vulcan mental disciplines, but as the hours wore on and he grew weaker, it became increasingly clear that the battle he was fighting would, in the end, prove a losing one.

Still, he _must_ extricate Lieutenant Uhura from the situation she was in and repay his debt to Mingo.

Spock's dark gaze returned to the frontiersman who lay on the other side of their makeshift camp, wrapped in a blanket with only his boots and curious animal skin cap showing. Logic dictated he needed the other man in order to continue his quest, but this was one time when he felt Dr. McCoy's constant advice must be headed and logic be damned. He could not take Daniel Boone with him. The frontiersman was a major figure in Earth's colonizing period. Boone's actions had deeply affected the nascent country and the millions who came after him. Spock could not in all good conscience place the pioneer in danger. To do so might compromise the timeline.

If it was not _already_ compromised simply by their being here.

Spock rose from his makeshift bed of leaves and pine needles. Moving with the stealth that had brought him successfully through his kahswan in the Vulcan desert, he crossed to where Daniel Boone lay sleeping and paused briefly at his side. It bothered him; tricking this man. In many ways Boone _did_ put him in mind of James T. Kirk.

Of course, logic had dictated that he trick Jim as well from time to time.

Leaving the frontiersman's blanket-wrapped form behind, Spock made his way to the edge of the clearing. Moving on another one hundred feet, he paused to get his bearings. As he did, the Vulcan heard a dull metallic _click._ The sound was accompanied by footsteps. With a frown, Spock raised his hands. He had not realized his injuries had _so_ affected him that he would make such a simple mistake as being taken unawares by the enemy. Turning on his heel, the weakened Vulcan prepared to resist.

There was no need. The man on the other end of the rifle, grinning a lop-sided grin, was Daniel Boone.

The lanky frontiersman shook his head and then topped the gesture off with a lop-sided grin. "That cuts it," he said. "Ain't no doubt. You and Mingo come out of the same mold."

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Nyota Uhura stirred. Her large black eyes were closed and she lay on the ground. She parted her lashes just enough to peer between them and watched as Tume strode back into the slavers' camp. It had been the sound of his coming that had awakened her. After their disagreement, she had been placed in the open with the other black men and women who were being held against their will. Most were still chained together, but the two women out of the dozen or so held, were bound separately like her. Uhura didn't want to think what that meant. To her 23rd century mind, the thought that such women could be arbitrarily used to bring pleasure to the men who meant to _sell_ them was more than barbaric. One watched it on the history tapes, but the reality was – to put it mildly – beyond belief.

She had read about old Earth and knew of its many prejudices. They ranged from simple race hatred to extreme xenophobia. Uhura had to wonder about Spock. If the ship's first officer was alive, where _was_ he? What sort of treatment would the Vulcan suffer at this hands of this century's uninformed and unenlightened inhabitants if they realized _what_ he was?

She really needed to escape and find him.

Uhura shifted back and then sat up, counting on the shadows of the trees and the gathering dark to mask her movements. She watched as Tume's party entered the camp. Solomon was there and the younger, somewhat stupid slaver with the blond hair. They were dragging something – no, some _one_ between them. It was a man, tall, with dark hair. Uhura's breath caught, but then she saw the man was dressed strangely and his hair fell all the way down his back. For a moment she had feared – almost _hoped_ it was Spock.

She was so worried about him.

As Tume spoke and the men turned her way, she thought for a moment her conscious state had been noticed. Then she realized the elegantly attired black man was directing Solomon and the others to place their captive with the slaves. Uhura sank back to the ground and feigned unconsciousness as they approached. The men were not gentle. They picked their captive up and heaved him over the short hastily erected fence that surrounded the area. His body struck the ground with a dull thud and he lay silent.

Uhura counted to one hundred and twenty before she chanced moving. And even then, all she did was once again open her eyes. The man lay no more than five feet from her. Even in the pale light of the moon she could see he was not what this century termed 'white'. His skin was a light brown, baked by the sun but tanned from birth. His hair shone a midnight blue like Spock's. He was very tall and dressed in clothes that, she thought, marked him as a native: a hide vest decorated with paint, feathers and beads, moccasins, and a curious pair of blue wool pants that looked something like those worn by the United States Calvary near the end of the next century. The native's muscled arms were bound behind his back.

She couldn't see his face.

Chancing it, Uhura shifted into a seated position. As she did, she felt another set of eyes on her. Glancing to the side, she noted the woman Solomon had called Venus was awake. Uhura acknowledged her and then turned back to the man –

Who was now sitting up and staring at her.

"Oh!" she gasped.

"I mean you no harm," he said, keeping his voice low. "Can you tell me where am I, fair lady, and who that despicable man is?"

Uhura hid her smile. _Fair_ lady. The native was obviously well-educated, and a gentleman. Neither of which she had expected from any male in _this_ century.

"His name is Tume," she answered. "That's Swahili. It means _agent_ or _messenger_. As to where you are, your guess is as good as mine." She smiled at last. "Probably better."

He nodded to Venus who was also listening. "You are this man's prisoners and, as such, in grave danger."

A statement of fact. The kind of thing Spock always did. "Yes."

"I see." The native turned and looked back. "These are reprehensible men, capable of anything. I fear for the friends left behind when I was taken." He paused. When he continued, his melodic voice rang with rage. "I had thought to find them here, but they are not. And that makes me fear for them even more."

"I'm sorry," she said, not knowing what else _to_ say.

At that moment any resemblance to Spock was blown away as the native smiled the most _stunning_ smile. "How very gracious of you. I am certain you have your own sorrows that are more than equal to mine."

She nodded. "I too have left a friend behind. I am worried about him. He was injured."

"Ah." The native continued to observe the camp. So far, no one was paying them any mind. Tume had disappeared into his lodge. "Then we have even _more_ in common."

Uhura stared at him a moment longer. "Nyota Uhura," she said, almost adding the obligatory 'of the starship Enterprise.'

"I would take your hand, but…" He indicated his bound wrists. "Cara-Mingo of the Chota Cherokee, though my friends call me Mingo." He smiled again. "I would enjoy counting you among them."

Her own prejudices showing – to her chagrin – Uhura admitted, "You are not what I would have expected from a Cherokee in this…. From a Cherokee."

"'Surprise me to the very brink of tears. Lend me a fool's heart and a woman's eyes'," he quoted with a mischievous grin.

"Timon of Athens," she murmured. Yes, a most _unusual_ Cherokee.

"I was educated at Oxford, Nyota," he offered in explanation. "My father thought my education somewhat lacking without the classics."

She could see it then; the Caucasian blood. Like Mr. Spock, this man belonged to two worlds.

Mingo took in the camp again and then looked back at her. "Are your hands free?"

She'd been working at it. "No, but they're close."

"Enough so that you could work at the ropes that bind mine?"

Uhura thought about it. She wiggled her fingers. "I think so."

"Then, perhaps, together we can free one another."

Her dark eyes flicked to the camp. Solomon was patrolling, walking a lazy arc about ten yards out from their prison wall. There was no way of knowing when he might come by to check on them. "We'll have to keep an eye out. One of the men – "

"I will keep watch," a light voice whispered in the darkness.

Uhura pivoted. It was Venus. "You speak Earth stan – English?"

"I interpret for my people. For the trade." The young woman shifted forward. As she did, the chains on her wrists and ankles clinked. "I will keep watch," she said, meeting Uhura's anxious gaze, "if you promise to take me with you."

The lieutenant in her frowned. "We will have to travel fast. It would be better if you stayed here and waited – "

The woman shook her head. "Something is to happen tonight. Whether I am to be sold or killed, I do not know. I would _rather_ die in the wild with chains on my feet while attempting to escape."

Mingo nodded solemnly. "I can carry you."

"If I cannot keep up," she agreed, "that would be acceptable."

Uhura hid her smile. The woman _sounded_ like one born to rule. "Okay, then it's settled. We three go together. Mingo," she pointed to the native, "Uhura, and…." She was sure the woman's name was _not_ Venus.

"Umbele," the young woman replied.

 _Umbele_ , Uhura mused, how appropriate.

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

This time Spock did sleep. There seemed little point in evading it with a six and a half foot tall, fully armed man keeping watch over him – both to protect, and to keep him from proceeding on his own.

So it was to his surprise to find that he wakened alone.

Stretching, Spock lifted his face to the night sky. For a moment, he allowed himself the emotional luxury of enjoying what he found. On the Enterprise viewscreen billions of stars were visible, but they whirled past at blinding speed and were a thing he contemplated only in so far as they could aid in his calculations. Here, they seemed to hang on the 'vault of heaven' as Shakespeare had put it, and even though he knew they were in constant motion – that what he was seeing was the dying gasp of worlds so far removed from Earth their reflected light appeared only after their demise – still, that bit of his mother's people that was in him delighted in their beauty.

Or at least it did for fifty point three two seconds until he reminded himself that he was Vulcan and immune to such things.

Rising to his feet, Spock took a quick inventory of his failing system. The fever, for the moment, remained at bay. His mind seemed reasonably clear, though he felt if called upon for any complex computation he might not be able to render it accurately. Worst of all, he was weak to the point of feeling faint. That realization brought him to another. He was _not_ functioning fully. It had been more than thirty-six hours since he had eaten and he had not thought of it until this moment.

He desperately needed sustenance.

For a moment Spock stood with the night air rustling his well-ordered hair, contemplating his next move. As he was alone, logic dictated he begin his search for Uhura and Mingo. Whatever had compelled Daniel Boone to leave and leave _him_ alone was proving most fortuitous, as it aided his desire to do so without the frontiersman as a companion. However, logic dictated as well that he would not make it far without fuel, so – at this time – the need for food superseded the need to protect his unrequested companion.

He only hoped he would not have reason to regret bowing to that logic.

Earth history had been mandatory in both his Vulcan and human educations, the focus, of course, being more intent during his years at the academy. Still, America's colonial period had not fascinated him with its barbarous policies of conquest and colonization, and so he had learned what was necessary, but little more. There was always the ship's computers to supply the missing knowledge if a more specific need arose.

Spock swayed where he stood. "The arrogance of the young," he mused to himself.

From what he remembered, the prevalent diet of the indigenous population should suit him well enough. There were many varieties of plants common to the wood – nuts, berries and roots – which would prove efficacious in erasing the hunger he felt. A tricorder, of course, would have proven most helpful, allowing him to confirm his own findings and to ascertain which indigenous species were harmless and which were, well, _harmful_. His gaze rested on a variety of fungi popping out of the grass near his feet. Either _lactarius volemnus_ or _chlorophyllum molybdites_ , as memory served, though he knew not which. One was consumed regularly by the local populace. The other promised violent gastrointestinal upset and, if consumed in mass quantities, the possibility of death.

With a sigh, Spock moved off into the trees to search for nuts and berries.

He had not gone far when a sound alerted him to danger. It was most curious, belonging as it seemed to neither his own time nor to the one he currently occupied. Forsaking his quest for food, he headed in its direction. Several minutes later the Vulcan arrived at a small clearing. The starlight streamed down through the thin ceiling of leaves and branches that partially occluded it, casting the forest floor as a reflection of its parent above. In its center there was a disturbance. The leaves and bracken stirred and, as he watched, rose in a whirlwind until they danced just above the surface of the thick carpet of grass. Then, as if some unseen foot had trod upon them, the green blades flattened. Above them a shimmering vortex appeared.

Spock frowned and moved closer, still retaining the cover of the now wildly agitated leaves. The vortex grew in substance until it resembled most the effects of a highly sophisticated transporter beam. In its heart was a figure. No, _two_. One held on to the other as though its life depended on the touch – which it most likely did. The Vulcan's near-black eyes narrowed, seeking to discern the shapes that were still in the process of materializing. One was relatively tall, lean but well-muscled, and of seemingly alien mien. If he was not mistaken, Spock could just make out a pair of pointed ears. The other was smaller, though still powerfully built. It was a man with tousled blond hair, wearing a pair of black pants and a thick gold shirt.

In spite of his Vulcan training Spock felt a surge of hope. The man wearing the Starfleet uniform, it was Jim –

He heard the footfall a second too late. Spock whirled and found himself face to face with the black man who had left him, only hours before, for dead.

"You're a hard man to kill, Mr. Spock," Tume intoned

It was only then Spock noticed the phaser in the slavers' hand.


	12. Chapter 12

Chapter Twelve

Dr. Leonard McCoy was rummaging beneath the counter in the tavern owned by Cincinnatus Jones. It was late and he was alone. For some reason – and it _was_ something other than the fact that his head still felt as if a hammer had been taken to it – he couldn't sleep. His host had kindly given him a lovely primitive room overlooking the grassy common in Boonesborough. It was even supplied with a bed with a thick feather ticking. Laying on it should have been a welcome comfort. Instead, it had been comparable to trying to sleep on a bed of needles.

He was worried about his friends. _All_ of them. The ones on the planet's surface and the ones on the Enterprise. So far he had not found anyone with any information concerning Spock, Uhura, or Deevers. While Deevers could have fit into the frontier town easily, both Spock and Uhura would be hard to explain. There weren't too many black women as educated or – he smiled – sure of themselves as Nyota. And Spock…. Well, Spock had an almost childlike quality that somehow always landed him in trouble. The old 20th century quote must be true, McCoy mused as he went back to searching, 'genius sees with the eyes of a child'.

The doctor's lips twisted in a rueful smile as he laid his hand on what he was looking for. "And this old southern boy does not suffer the loss of geniuses gladly."

Lifting the bottle from its hiding place and cradling it in his hands, McCoy rose to his feet only to find that he was being watched – by a very small boy with blue eyes round as the planet and a mop of white blond hair. McCoy scowled. The child had appeared as if by magic. He sat on the counter, his face screwed up with disapproval.

"Well, hello," McCoy said. Then he added in a fatherly tone, "Isn't it past your bedtime, son?"

The boy didn't argue. "Yep."

The surgeon paused. "Well, then, shouldn't you get back to bed?"

"What're you doin'?" the boy asked, his nose scrunched up and the freckles fleeing over his pink cheeks. "What's in the bottle?

Reverently clutching it to his chest, McCoy answered, "Medicine. I have need of it for – "

"There's plenty on the shelf," the youngster commented with a nod, indicating the brown and green glass bottles that flanked the star traveler like a row of soldiers sworn to silence. "What's wrong with them?"

The doctor licked his lips. What he held in his hands was the oldest, the _finest_ bottle of Kentucky bourbon a man could hope to possess. He had seen it earlier when Cincinnatus took a sip before bedding down for the night. Once, on Rigel Seven, a bottle of this stuff had gone at auction for more credits that it would have taken to rent a starship for a joyride to Alpha Centauri.

"They haven't the same properties."

The boy looked skeptical. "Ma says they all make you sick." He frowned mightily. "I thought you was a doctor"

"I am!" McCoy insisted, a little bit too loudly. Placing the bottle on the counter, he leaned toward the boy and asked, hopefully, "Where's your ma now?"

The white-blond head shook and the boy let out one of the longest, saddest sighs the surgeon had ever heard. "I ain't seen her since last night. I'm _powerful_ worried about her."

McCoy hesitated, and then placed a hand on the boy's shoulder. "I'm sure she's all right, son. Where did she go?"

The boy slipped off the counter and began to pace. "Back to the cabin. She should'a been here before dark." He stopped then and the resolution that filled his face put McCoy in mind of that Vulcan he had been thinking of before. Signal flags flared and waved. "I mean to go get her!" the boy proclaimed loudly.

"Son, no…." McCoy spun around the counter. "You can't…." At the child's look, he hesitated. Pleading never did any good with Spock either – or Jim Kirk for that matter. Better to let him come to the conclusion himself. McCoy crossed to where the boy stood and knelt beside him. "What's your name, son?"

The boy's perpetual scowl deepened. "Why do you want to know?"

"I can't just keep calling you 'son', now can I?"

He thought about it a moment. "S'pose not." The boy wiped his hand on his shirt and held it out to him. "Israel. Israel Boone."

He took it. "Dr. Leonard – "

"McCoy," the boy announced. "I know."

"How do you know?"

Israel shrugged as he released the surgeon's hand. "Yad told me." A grin broke on his sober face. "He told me he trussed you up good yesterday."

"Well, yes, I suppose he did." McCoy rose to his feet. "Tell me, Israel, have you thought this through?"

"What? Goin' after Ma? Sure have."

"What if she's on her way here?"

The boy frowned. "I'll meet her comin' then."

"What if she enters the fort from the other direction?"

"Why'd she do that? I know which way we live."

"Of course, you do." McCoy thought furiously. He had taken this tack with his daughter, Joanna, when she had decided to run away at age 7. He'd given her permission and then – Spock would have been proud of him – _logically_ shown her how impossible it would be. "Never doubt it. Still, if your ma comes in the back and you go out the front…."

"You could keep watch for me." The boy's resolve was beginning to weaken. "Couldn't you?"

He shook his head. "Sorry, I have patients to look after."

"Oh." Israel hesitated. "I could leave her a note."

"Can you write?"

He shook his head. "No. Ain't learned yet, though Pa tells me I gotta soon."

McCoy fought a smile. The boy was wearing down. "Where _is_ your pa, Israel?"

"He's lookin' for Mingo. I was with Mingo afore I came here." There was real longing in the child's tone. "I sure wish I was with him still."

"Mingo's a friend of yours?"

"The best!" The boy looked up at him. There was a look of pure adoration in his young eyes. "You got any friends, mister?"

He nodded. "Sure do. That's why I'm here. I'm looking for two of them."

"Maybe I seen 'em. What'a they look like?"

At least the boy seemed to have been distracted from his intended expedition. "Oh, you'd have known them if you had seen them," McCoy replied absently.

Israel did a good imitation of a man becoming alert. "You skeered to tell me? Why? What'a they done?"

"I ain't…I'm not scared to tell you anything." McCoy shrugged. "The man is thin and tall, with hair black as a bear's. The woman is black as well, what you would call a _negress_."

"Is the man an Injun like Mingo?"

"No. No." McCoy glanced toward the door. "But he is different from you and me."

"There's slavers around, and Shawnee on the warpath." Israel shook his head solemnly. "Ain't a good time to be wanderin' around."

McCoy smiled. "Isn't that what _I_ was telling you just a little bit ago?"

"Israel Boone! What are you doing downstairs?" The voice was young, female, and highly displeased. "You get back to bed right now."

The surgeon turned toward the inn's staircase, which was the source of the voice. In the dim light he could make out a female shape, but little more. "That your ma?"

"Gosh, no," the small boy whined dejectedly. "It's my _sister!_ "

A slight brown-haired form moved down the stair, the skirts of its white nightgown swishing as they brushed the wooden posts lining it. "Israel Boone, I declare, you are more trouble than you're worth. You answer me. What are you doing down here?"

"I was talking to the doc," he alibied. "Ain't that right, Doc?"

McCoy had been a young boy once, with older female relatives. He turned his best smile on the young woman. "He certainly was. Neither of us could sleep and so we were keeping each other company."

She looked from one to the other. "Poppycock! You men are all alike. Ain't…isn't one of you can be trusted to tell the truth when he's caught with a frog in his pocket."

McCoy swallowed a smile. He'd been _there_ too. Stepping forward, he held out a hand. "I don't believe we've met, Miss…."

"Boone. Jemima Boone," she answered, her look still wary.

"Miss Boone. I am Doctor Leonard McCoy and I am pleased to meet you. May I mention that you look quite lovely." With that, he took her offered hand and gave it a gentlemanly kiss. And while he might not move them like the Vulcan did with his cool demeanor and enigmatic inaccessibility, he had not lost that old southern charm. The girl's face lit with a beautiful smile and she blushed.

"Thank you," Jemima stuttered. "Yadkin told us you were here. You're looking for someone?"

He nodded. "A man and woman."

"They're your friends?"

He swallowed. "Yes."

Jemima took a step toward him. She placed a hand on his. "I'm sure you'll find them. Or, if you don't, you just wait until my pa gets here, and he'll find them for you."

"Your pa?" Suddenly her name registered. "Boone? _Daniel_ Boone?"

The smile returned. Brighter this time. "That's him!"

While they spoke, Jemima's little brother had dropped to sit on the floor. Though he pretended to listen, Israel's head bobbed with the effort to remain awake. McCoy indicated him with a nod. As the young woman rolled her eyes, he called to him softly. When the boy looked up, McCoy added, "You know, it's awfully dark on that landing. You wouldn't want your sister to stumble. Now would you?"

It wasn't quite a pout. "No, sir."

"Good. Then why don't you escort her up the stairs? After that, if you are still awake in say – a half hour – you can come back down and join me."

"Do I haft 'a?" the boy protested, but his heart was no longer in it.

McCoy grinned. "It's the _gentlemanly_ thing to do."

As Israel rose and began the grudging trek back up the stairs, Jemima smiled at the amused surgeon. "Thanks," she whispered and then followed her brother.

"You're welcome," McCoy replied before turning back to the counter where he had left the bottle of bourbon.

"Yes, thank you," a new voice said, startling him.

McCoy whirled in the direction of the door. He hadn't noticed that it had opened. A woman stood just inside. She wore a dress of a light fabric he thought was called calico along with a light cloak, the hood of which was pulled up to cover her hair. Thick locks of the copper stuff spilled out and over her shoulders anyway. As she spoke, she lowered the hood to reveal a beautiful face and a pair of wide, honest, deep blue eyes.

"Madame," McCoy said with a nod. "How long have you been standing there?"

The woman approached him. "Long enough."

Her figure matched her face. She was _truly_ lovely. McCoy smiled appreciatively as he watched her remove her cloak and drop it familiarly on a nearby chair. "'There is too much beauty upon this earth for lonely men to bear,'" he muttered almost to himself.

"I beg your pardon?" the woman asked as she approached him.

The surgeon held out his hand. "Dr. Leonard McCoy, Madame. And you might be?"

"Rebecca," she answered as she took it, her voice as lovely as her face. "Oh! Forgive me," she said, stiffening in his grasp. "I've been…busy. I need to clean up." Growing suddenly nervous, she tried to pull her hand away. "Thank you for what you did for my children. Now I must go to them…."

McCoy couldn't imagine what had upset her. Then he saw it – a dark smear running up her right arm. As soon as he saw that, the surgeon realized as well that part of the pattern on her calico dress was not sewn or dyed. It was, in fact, blood.

 _Green_ blood.

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Outside Cincinnatus' tavern Carolina Yadkin was yawning mightily. He was considering his options, of which there were two. Start out now and head back to his own cabin where he could be free of the confounded interference of women and tavern-keepers, or stay the night on the old coot's floor and spare himself the long trek to his place. Both had their plusses and minuses. He'd just tipped his hat to Rebecca Boone. That meant breakfast in the morning would be a real feast. Becky never could sit back and let a man cook when she was around. On the other hand, that meant sitting at the table with Daniel's wife while she pretended not to, but asked him questions concerning – among other things – his fiancé, Donna. And putting up with Israel _and_ Cincinnatus' snickers when he blushed right up to his pale blond eyebrows as she did.

 _Danged_ if life didn't hand a man a fistful of hard choices!

Shifting his weight to the other foot, Yad glanced back at the tavern. He knew his friend Daniel would never have traded a day with Becky, but sometimes – when they came back from an _extended_ trip to one of her tongue-lashings – he wondered how the man did abide it. A woman just didn't understand what it was to be a man. Men was made to be like the animals roaming the wild woods – _free_ , without no female to tell them when to be home or to scold them when they chose to stay out all night, or all _week_ for that matter! Why, once a man tied the knot, he couldn't even smoke a cigar in his own cabin, or put his muddy boots where he wanted to. He weren't free no more, but caged like one of those circus animals. Caged and castra –

Yad pursed his lips.

Weren't no one ever gonna accuse Daniel Boone of _that_. So there had to be a way. There _had_ to be a way to be with the woman who made your knees weak and your palms sweat, the one you thought about night and day, _without_ losing the man you were.

Maybe he'd just go and ask Daniel how _he_ done it.

Yad glanced back at the tavern, thinking of that breakfast, and then headed for the gate.

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

"Where did you get this?" McCoy demanded, his fingers closing on the woman's arm with fearful strength. He indicated the greenish-black smear with a nod. _"Where?"_

Becky gasped. "It's just dye…," she alibied.

The surgeon's spine stiffened and his blue eyes grew intense. "Madame, in case you don't remember, I introduced myself as _Doctor_ McCoy. I have more than a passing familiarity with what it looks like when a man bleeds. This is blood."

"How can it be?" the woman snapped as she finally succeeded in pulling her arm free. "It's _green,_ or hadn't you noticed?"

Yes, he had. That was what had made his stomach sink to his toes.

Obviously this woman had been in contact with Spock – or some other Vulcanoid. And just as obviously, whoever it was, they had been severely injured. There was a _lot_ of blood.

"Dear lady," McCoy began, keeping his voice as neutral as possible and thinking _fast_ , "I have studied at the finest universities in Europe – Edinburgh, being one of them – and I can assure you that green blood _is_ possible." He drew a breath and lied. "In the body, copper is critical in the formation and metabolism of red blood cells and connective tissue formation. In certain…races…that copper comes to dominate over the iron that normally makes our blood red. It is an aberration, a _freak_ of nature, but it can occur."

She blinked, somewhat stunned. "Really?"

Thank God scientific methodology and easily available information were centuries away! "Of course."

Rebecca Boone was eyeing him, as if trying to determine whether or not he was trustworthy. "Do you have…experience of this?" she asked.

"One of my patients has such blood," McCoy said, deliberately meeting her wary gaze. "One of my _friends_ ," he added quietly.

"Oh?"

He nodded. "His name is – "

Unexpectedly the door to the tavern flew open. "Consarn it!" Carolina Yadkin declared as he stormed in. After a glance at the two of them, he moved past McCoy to the counter. To the surgeon's chagrin, the blond man picked up the bottle of extra fine Kentucky bourbon and lifted it to his lips. He downed a fifth of it in one gulp. "What's this settlement comin' too?" Yad asked as he wiped his mouth on his buckskin sleeve. "A man can't even go for a walk if'n he wants to!"

"Yad, what's wrong?" Rebecca Boone asked, seemingly glad for the interruption.

"They've closed the gate! Ain't no one goin' in or out tonight."

McCoy scowled. For more than one reason. "Why?"

"Injuns. Shawnee on the warpath." Yad took another swig. "Ain't nothin' new. Those weak-kneed, lily-livered soldiers at the gate ain't got nothin between their – "

"Yad, keep your voice down. The children," the redhead said.

He nodded. "Sorry, Becky."

She smiled at the blond man, though the gesture was forced. Then she turned to McCoy. "I really should get upstairs."

"But you never answered my question." He was growing desperate. The amount of blood on her dress and skin indicated some sort of substantial loss. There was no one in this century to give Spock a transfusion. No one but _him_. "Do you know where my friend is?"

She opened her mouth. Almost spoke. But then shook her head. "No."

As Yadkin took another swig, his eyes flicked from one to the other. "The doc botherin' you, Becky?"

She had started for the stair. Now she turned back. "You know him, Yad?"

"I should!" the frontiersman snorted. "I caught him easy as a jackrabbit without no sense and brung him in. Didn't I, Doc?"

Yadkin's words were beginning to slur. McCoy eyed the bottle miserably, and then dismissed it. "I was on my way to the settlement in search of my _friend_ when I stepped into one of Mr. Yadkin's traps. I had the misfortune to strike my head when I was…released."

"Me and 'Natus brung him here," Yad agreed with a lazy nod and a hiccup.

The surgeon could see the war going on within Rebecca Boone. The struggle showed in her handsome face and was mirrored in her intelligent eyes. Becky bit her lip and then asked something he had not expected. "What is his mother's name?"

The question took him so off guard, that for a moment McCoy was at a loss. "I beg your pardon?"

The uncertainty shown in her eyes. "Your _friend_ with the unusual blood…. What is his mother's name?"

McCoy couldn't imagine any possible scenario where Spock would have shared _that_ kind of personal information with a total stranger. But then he had found, on occasion, that the Vulcan _was_ beyond his imagining. He cleared his throat before replying. "Amanda."

Rebecca Boone relaxed and nearly tumbled to the floor. McCoy caught her as she swayed.

"Here now!" Yad protested, sounding ever more sloshed. "That's my best friend's wife you're handlin' there – "

"Shut up, Yad!" both McCoy and Becky Boone shouted.

"Where is he? Where's Spock?" the surgeon demanded as he turned back to her. "How badly is he hurt?"

"It was bad," she answered, her voice hushed. "He almost died. He went into some sort of trance. I tried, but Dan brought him out of it."

"So he's all right now?"

She shook her head. "No. There was this other man. He's _evil._ He wouldn't let Spock mend. He woke him too soon. He _wanted_ him to die!"

"Other man?"

"Tume. A black man. He looks like a slaver, but there's something else…." The redhead hesitated. "I think he's a… _traveler…_ like Spock and you."

He wondered exactly what she meant by that, but there was no time to pursue it farther. "This man wanted Spock dead?"

She nodded. "Very much so."

McCoy's mind flew back through the things Willow had said before sending him here. This Tume must be one of the time travelers; one of the ones engaged in the war. But since Spock and Uhura's crash landing in this time had been an accident, why would one of the combatants have a special dislike for the Vulcan?

Unless their landing here was _not_ an accident.

"Good God," he whispered. "Where is he now?"

"He wasn't very well, but he was well enough to get up and move. My husband Dan went with him. Spock said he had to find his companion. A woman named Nyota?"

McCoy nodded. "Uhura."

"Also, our friend Mingo had helped him. He's looking for him as well."

Well, at least Spock wasn't alone. Still, the Vulcan should have been in bed and not on his feet. From the look of the woman's dress, he had a serious wound and had probably lost a great deal of blood before getting any sort of treatment. And unless Uhura had managed to hang on to the kit he had given her through a crash landing, the only store of Vulcan blood on this entire planet was in his 19th century medicine bag upstairs.

"I have to find him," McCoy declared.

Becky shook her head. "He's gone into the wilderness. I don't know where. They were tracking the men who took Mingo." She paused and asked hopefully, "Can you read sign?"

"If it's written clearly and posted above the highway," McCoy answered with a sigh. He raised a hand to still her question. "I take it you mean footprints and such? No, I can't do that."

The redhead's eyes shot to Yadkin who was just down slipping behind the counter, the empty bourbon bottle in hand.

"Yad can, but he's in no condition…."

"Not to worry, fair lady," McCoy countered with a dangerous grin.

He'd packed the sobriety drug. Just in case.


	13. Chapter 13

Chapter Thirteen

Even as he materialized James T. Kirk twisted his body away from the Romulan male he clung to, knowing full well that the position he was in left him vulnerable. Fortunately, he seemed to gain his bearings seconds before the other man. As his feet hit the rough ground, Kirk kicked off and spun in a roll that took him into the dense underbrush at the edge of the clearing. Once within the cool leaves he lay very still. Then, as he heard the time traveler let loose with what he could only imagine was a heartfelt alien curse, the captain of the Enterprise began to crawl forward on his belly, seeking a gully or some other natural feature of the land to disappear into. Just as he found a depression and dropped into it and began to pull leaves and bracken over his prostrate form, Kirk heard a familiar whirring sound. The forest around him lit with a crimson light for the space of five heartbeats. Then it fell into silence and darkness.

The sound of a phaser firing had been unmistakable. Was the Romulan taking pot shots, hoping to stun or kill him by chance? Kirk finished burying himself and lay very still. If he had understood only one _tenth_ of what the alien woman had told him, he'd better make damn certain he survived and remained at large. There was a war of some kind going on, one that involved time travel, and if those perpetrating it went unchecked then everything he was familiar with might come to an end.

And he knew it _could._ He had been witness to just such an event not that long ago.

After what happened, Starfleet had wisely quarantined the Guardian of Forever _and_ the planet that held it, and placed any knowledge of its true purpose off limits. Very few men or women knew the truth about the sentient rock arch whose purpose it was to show and manipulate time. It didn't take much of a leap to imagine what unscrupulous beings would do with that kind of power. What McCoy had done by accident back in 1930 when he saved Edith Keeler's life, _could_ be done intentionally. All of history could be altered and made to conform to the whims of a single madman….

Kirk choked. _Was_ that what was happening? Were there two bands of time travelers, warring one against the other; both sending agents back in time to alter events so that their side would ultimately win?

 _Dear God_ ….

The sound of leaves being crushed underfoot alerted Kirk to the fact that someone was drawing close to his hiding place. Peering out from under the blanket of bracken, he spied a pair of boots. The Romulan he had hitched a ride with had been wearing boots, but they had been standard Federation issue. The pair he was staring at now were handmade, highly polished, and had ornamental silver buckles. Kirk held his breath as the buckles moved forward. By the time they stopped, the toes of the shining boots were less than two feet from the tip of his nose.

Which was itching.

"Do you see him?" a man asked from farther away.

"No. There is nothing," the one with the buckles answered. "You are certain you saw him come this way?"

"As certain as one can be when coming out of the tube," the first man whom he now recognized as the Romulan growled. "The human recovered quickly."

There was a short pause, then Buckles asked, "Does that bother you, S'Tahl? That there is a _human_ faster and better than you?"

S'Tahl. Kirk scowled. That confirmed it. He hoped this man was a rogue. If the Romulans as a _race_ were involved in this time war….

"Does it bother _you_ , Tume," S'Tahl snapped back, "that I could break your neck in an instant should I so desire?"

Buckles, or Tume scoffed. "Then who would do your dirty work, Romulan?"

S'Tahl made a noise low in his throat, indicating either his approval or disgust. "Did you find D'Ayron's _prize?_ " The last word he spat as a curse.

"Just now," Tume admitted a heartbeat later. "It is that way, in the trees."

"The commander will be pleased. What about the negress?"

"She is held in my camp."

Kirk tensed in his bed of leaves. Were they speaking of Uhura? Could he be so lucky as to have landed near her location? And maybe Spock's?

"Good. Rain of Stars will wish to question her as well." S'Tahl paused. When he spoke again, there was an unholy joy in his words. "Tonight it will both begin and end. The last alteration to the time stream will be made and then we will return to the Enterprise and complete our primary mission." He snarled. "It would have been done already if not for that interfering female…."

"Unless her agents go back before us and undo what we have done."

S'Tahl hissed. "Idiot! It will not be allowed. Once things are set in motion, we will return through the time tube and destroy the knowledge that made it possible. She will not win. Victory is ours to reach out and claim!" The Romulan moved ahead of the other man. "Now, take me to D'Ayron's prize."

Tume did not move. A moment later, his voice pitched so low Kirk had to strain to hear it, he asked, "Is that wise? You know the Earthers were _all_ to have been killed."

"Wise or not, we both have our orders," S'Tahl answered. "My commander has given them, and I obey. You should do the same, Tume, unless you care to _disobey_ them and face your leader's wrath."

"I do not."

"Good." S'Tahl began to move through the underbrush. "Come then!"

Kirk held his breath, waiting for Tume to follow the Romulan. The man with the buckles did, but only after ten or fifteen heartbeats had passed.

And even then, it was with the words 'not _yet_ ' on his lips.

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

A big man, crouched to half his height, watched as the strange crimson light weakened and then faded away entirely like sunlit morning mist. The sound he had heard a few minutes before – like a hundred wood frogs singing – had faded with it. The forest was silent again. Daniel Boone released the breath he had drawn and pursed his lips. Somehow he had a feeling whatever it was, it had to do with the man he was pursuing. Dan had returned to the camp to find Spock gone. He had gone to scout out the area and hoped the wounded man would sleep until his return – the stranger _should_ have with as hard as he had pressed himself. When he had checked the traveler before taking off, it seemed the wounded man had fallen into a deep, dreamless sleep.

"No such luck," Dan muttered, chiding himself.

The big frontiersman had just started to rise when he heard voices. Squatting again, he gripped his rifle tightly while he waited for whoever it was to pass. There were two men. Both were fairly good size. One fit the description of the man who had forced his way into their cabin and left Spock for dead. Tume, that was the name his wife had given him.

Walking beside Tume was something Daniel Boone had never expected to see – another man of Spock's tribe or race. The stranger's hair was black and just as ramrod straight as Spock's, though he wore it longer. It glistened like gun metal in the dying light. There was no mistaking the unusual pointed ears, though in tone the man's skin was darker, as if tanned. Unlike Spock, this man was visibly well-muscled. He might have been a bare knuckle fighter from the look of him. Also, unlike Spock, he had a mean look about him and a glint of savagery in his black eyes.

The frontiersman drew a breath and held it as the pair passed by, hoping to hear something of worth. He didn't catch much, but he did hear several phrases. 'He's back there' and 'get him later'.

One thing was sure. If they _were_ talking about Spock, they didn't have him.

Dan hesitated, torn between following the two men to their destination or heading in the opposite direction and looking for the traveler. Considering Spock's condition, he decided he'd best do that first. He could always follow the other men's prints later.

Gripping Ticklicker tightly, Dan rose to his feet and began to move quickly through the underbrush. Night had fallen and he only had the light of the stars to show his way, but then he was used to that. He knew this part of the forest by heart – meaning he loved and cherished it near as much as he did his family. He knew its heartbeat. He had walked each and every foot of it, and the pattern of the land had been impressed upon his soul. Jump the tiny creek. Climb the hillock. Watch out for that depression on the other side…. Even as he passed it, Dan's mind registered the fact that the depression was gone. He spun, fully expecting an attack.

And was not disappointed.

A compact body clad in gold and black exploded up and out of the hollow. The man didn't take him completely by surprise, but it was enough of a shock to throw the frontiersman off-balance. Dan staggered back a step. His opponent gave no quarter. Before he could even think to make a move, the other man attacked, striking out with a fist to his chin and then barreling into him full force, using a well-muscled shoulder to lead. Dan lost his grip on Ticklicker as he tumbled to the ground. He expected his attacker to make a grab for it, but he did no such thing. Instead, the man in gold leaned forward and pinned him to the ground with a chin lock.

From his position, Dan inspected the man. He didn't think he'd ever seen him before. He was fairly young and white, and had a tangle of bracken-strewn golden hair dangling over his forehead. The curling locks did nothing to disguise the fire in his hazel eyes. Women would have called him handsome.

Dan called him _determined._

"Who are you?" the blond man demanded. "Where are you from?"

The frontiersman shook his head as best he could and stretched his neck. Then he coughed and shook it again.

A dozen different possibilities danced across the shining surface of the other man's eyes. Dan watched him dismiss them one by one. At the last, his attacker's gaze moved down his long frame, taking in the frontiersman's fringed leather jacket, coonskin cap and boots. The chin lock lessened, but he was not released.

"Answer me," the stranger said, somewhat mollified.

Dan swallowed. Then he grinned. "Can you…repeat the question? When the life's bein'…squeezed out of a man, it makes it…mighty hard to think."

His attacker frowned. "I asked you who you are."

"I'm the man you're chokin' to death," he answered, his voice a hoarse whisper.

The arm was pulled back a bit more. "I don't want to harm you."

"You got a funny way of showin' it, stranger."

"I'm sorry, but I don't know who I can trust. You could be one of _them_."

"Them?"

The blond man's eyes strayed to the forested area before them. He paused, as if seeking for words. "Travelers. Men who don't belong here."

"Like you?"

Dan was surprised to see the flicker of a smile quirk the man's lips. "Yes, like me." His attacker studied him a moment and then came to a quick decision. Rocking back, the blond man released the hold. Dan reached up and massaged his neck, and then quicker than a snake greased with butter brought his knees up and gripped the other man with them. Tightening his hold, Dan rolled the stranger over until he landed on top. As he did, he reached out and caught the other man by the throat.

And grinned.

"Now, stranger, who are you and what are _you_ doin' here?"

This time the blond _did_ smile – as if recognizing an equal. "Fair enough. James T. Kirk. And you?"

Dan pursed his lips and shook his head. "First things first, Mr. Kirk. What are _you_ doin' here?"

Growing suddenly serious, the man answered, "Well, if you must know the truth, I've come to stop a war."

Dan felt his eyebrows knit into a 'v'. Could Kirk be an agent of the army or government? He certainly comported himself like a military man. "And what war might that be?" he asked.

"I'm not sure," Kirk replied honestly. "But when I figure it out, you'll be the first to know. Now, why don't you let me up and I'll be about my business."

"Not until I understand what that 'business' is."

"My business is no _business_ of yours," the other man snapped, a hint of impatience in his tone. "Do you waylay every passerby that happens through this part of the woods?"

"Every one I find skulkin' in a hollow and covered with leaves," Dan replied in kind.

"Yes. Well…. I assure you that is not my normal habitation. I was attempting to avoid two men who were traipsing about – "

"Tume?" Dan asked. "And that other odd-lookin' fellow?"

Kirk tensed in his grip. "Yes. Did you see where they went?"

"Yep."

The blond stared at him. " _Where?"_

Dan held the man a moment longer and then returned Kirk's earlier favor. He loosened his grip and rose to his feet. The frontiersman prided himself on being a good judge of character. And he had decided that this was a _good_ man. "They headed into the woods over there," he said with a nod in the general direction.

Kirk did not move. The wheels were whirring in his head again. His eyes shifted from side to side and lines creased his forehead as he thought furiously. For several heartbeats it seemed to Dan that he was witnessing the war the man had mentioned. Then, James T. Kirk was all action again. He leapt to his feet. Once on them, he paused. Dan watched him assess the difference in their heights – near half a foot – and dismiss it. Quickly, Kirk's ability and _need_ to take command reasserted itself.

"A friend of mine is missing – two, no, _three_ actually. I think those two men might hold the key to finding them."

"You got sign pointin' that way?" the frontiersman asked.

"Sign?" Kirk scowled. "Oh, you mean _proof?_ No. But I don't need any." Kirk jammed a fist into his gut. " _This_ tells me it's so."

"A feelin'?"

"An intuition." The blond man flashed a brilliant smile. "I have a feeling you know something of that?"

He did. It was what made his famous _plans_ work; a spontaneous surety that what he did – whatever it might be – was right and that it _would_ work. "I might," Dan answered with much the same grin. "So, you're goin' after them?"

Kirk tugged on the hem of his odd gold shirt as he nodded. "Yes. I must. These are my people. I am responsible for them."

"I thought they were your friends…."

The grin returned. "That too. Now, I must be going, Mister…. I didn't get your name."

Dan held out his hand. "Boone. Daniel Boone."

"Pleased to meet you, Daniel. I…." Kirk's voice faded out as a sort of shock registered on his face. "Daniel _Boone?_ "

"Yep. Somethin' wrong with it?"

"No, sir. It's just that I…." Kirk swallowed. "I've always admired you…. " He paused, seeming to think better of what he had been about to say. "I mean, I admire you from what I've read about – heard about you from…others…."

Dan's lopsided grin was wry. "You ain't been talkin' to my wife then," he laughed.

Kirk frowned. "Rebecca. Rebecca Bryan, right?"

The frontiersman was instantly alert. "Maybe you better tell me just who you _have_ been talkin' to."

The blond sighed. "Mr. Boone, I would if I could. But I can't. And I can't waste any more time standing here talking – much as I would like to. I need to look for my friends."

Dan stared at him hard for a moment longer. Then he went to pick up Ticklicker. Cradling her in his arms, he addressed the other man. "I gotta do the same. The one I'm lookin' for is hurtin', so I'd best be on my way."

Kirk nodded. He took a step away and then turned back. "Wounded?"

"Yep."

"Badly?"

Dan nodded.

"Then what is he doing out here?"

The frontiersman snorted. "Man's slippery as a skinned cat and stubborn as a harnessed mule. I ain't known him more than a day and I've already been tempted to hogtie him twice." He grinned. "I pity whoever's known him longer."

"Sounds like someone I know," Kirk murmured. Then, abruptly, the blond man's expression changed. Suddenly it was keen with curiosity. "This man. What does he look like?"

"Why? You think you know him?"

Kirk laughed. "I'm _betting_ I do. Tall. Spare of body and movement. Hair black as coal. With an unusual propensity for getting into trouble…."

"Sounds like Mingo," Dan laughed.

"Who?"

"Friend of mine. Half-Cherokee, half-English. Mingo can get into trouble faster than any man I know."

"Not faster than the one _I_ know, I wager. His name is – "

"Spock?"

Kirk nodded, exhausted and energized all at once. "Yes, Mr. Spock. I've found him then!" The blond's handsome face sobered with concern. "But you said he was badly wounded?"

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

D'Ayron looked into the trade mirror he had hung on one of the posts in the lodge where he carried on business under the assumed name of Rain of Stars. He studied his own face. There was no doubt it was a handsome one with its high cheekbones, upswept eyebrows, and keen amber eyes surrounded by a sea of unruly umber hair. His skin was naturally a light bronze, darkened now by continual exposure to the Kentucky sun. The process had nearly erased the sallow green undertone bequeathed to him by his famous – or _infamous_ – ancestor. In the hundreds of years that had passed since the _incident_ , the mark of that weaker race had risen to the surface at least once each generation to plague his father's house. In the end it had proven a blessing in disguise as it had driven him, as his fathers before him, to greater heights.

Tell a Romulan he is weak and he will fight to prove that he is stronger than _all_.

Still, D'Ayron had to admit as he gazed into the swirling pools of his golden eyes, that he _was_ different. He saw things others did not – or _would_ not see. He could rise above his passions, ignore them, even _control_ them when he wanted to. It was this that had brought him to command at such a young age; this, as well, that had allied him with the Initiators and led him to this place at first to do their bidding and now, to do his own. He would use the men they had provided to transform Earth's history and radically alter its roots so the more warlike attributes of the species became its controlling factor. In this way Starfleet would not arise as a peacekeeping force, but as the third arm of an axis of power – human, Romulan, Klingon – that would eventually rule the galaxy. The roots of the Federation of Planets, though intergalactic, lay in Terran history. In this time, the fledgling country stood poised on the brink of change. In the short span of eight years, its fate would be decided. The British would be driven out and the Native American population – for all intents and purposes – subdued. Tecumseh would rise during the next decade, but already the seeds of his destruction were being sown. Or at least they _had_ been sown before.

That was what _he_ was here to change.

Romulan Commander D'Ayron turned from the mirror and gazed out of the door of his lodge, looking at the lush landscape that did not vary in some aspects from his homeworld. If successful here as well as on his next assignment in Vulcan's ancient past, when he returned to the future those he sprang from would no longer be considered weak and unworthy. They would have chosen instead to embrace their savage natures and to live as warriors. No longer would the mix of alien blood that ran in his veins mark him as someone to be pitied or censured.

It would mark him as the best of _three_ worlds.

A sudden movement outside the tent alerted the man known to the Shawnee as Rain of Stars to the fact that Tume had returned. He waited to see if his somewhat recalcitrant soldier had fulfilled his mission. As an incentive, before the black man left, he had been careful to make him aware of Unemake's punishment and resulting condition. The shaman had failed him and had paid the price. Oh, he was not dead. The native was too useful to kill outright. Instead, D'Ayron had used his inherited abilities to plant a suggestion in the native's mind that his skin was on fire, and then left him to writhe in pain until he blacked out. After that, he had entered the shaman's dreams, promising sweet relief, but delivered still more pain. Unemake had fallen into a coma-like sleep after that. When needed, D'Ayron would waken him. What was left of the man's mind would be his to mold and use as he chose.

His second in command, Subcommander S'Tahl entered the lodge. He halted, raised his left arm, and made the customary salute. "Commander," he said, his voice pitched low. D'Ayron knew he was using caution lest any of the native Shawnee without the tent hear the unusual term.

"Subcommander. What news?"

"We have the Vulcan, sir."

D'Ayron fought for control. His jaw tightened and the fingers of one hand clenched into a fist. "Where?"

The subcommander turned back toward the door. "Tume, come."

The tall black man stepped into the lodge. Over his shoulder he bore the lean form of a man clothed in colonial garb. The back of the man's blue shirt was burnt as if from phaser fire. Tume met D'Ayron's eyes; his own fathomless pools of black without expression. In a toneless voice, he announced, "Your prize. _Sir_." Then, without preamble, he shifted and let the Vulcan drop to the floor with a sickening thud.

D'Ayron did not take the bait. Neither did he correct the tall black man. Tume was useful for the moment and so he was to be tolerated. When his use was over, so would be his life. The Romulan commander moved forward. He knelt beside the fallen man and turned his captive's head slightly. Emotions washed over him at the site of it that he did nothing to control. He _knew_ the face. He had seen it since childhood on the memory disks that filled the great libraries of the Empire. He knew it as well from the holo-vids he had viewed at the Romulan Military Academy during his instruction. In the holos this man had been a scientist, a warrior, and a diplomat. In them he seldom walked alone, and most always beside a certain human male. Together Captain James Tiberius Kirk and Mr. Spock had been a formidable enemy to his people. Once, the pair had perpetrated a hoax and stolen a recently improved cloaking device, the loss of which had set the military machine of the Romulan Empire back nearly two decades. The _Enterprise_ _Incident_ , as it had been named, was mandatory reading for any warrior rising through the ranks of the Praetor's army. The files were very thorough, D'Ayron acknowledged, but they were not complete. There was one chapter in the incident not recorded. One that had passed after its end, behind closed doors.

One exchange that was permanent.

D'Ayron dismissed Tume and ordered the black man to use their transporter system to return to his camp and, in an hour, to bring Spock's companion to him. The quicker the man whose loyalty he had come to question was out of sight, the better. The Romulan commander drew a deep breath and released it slowly as the black man nodded and took his leave.

He turned back to Spock. Kneeling again, the Romulan Commander lay a hand on the Vulcan's chest, reassuring himself of the reality of his existence. Then D'Ayron took that hand and reached out with it, brushing Spock's temple with his fingertips. He hesitated only a second, as if knowing he should seek permission before trespassing, and then ruthlessly pressed three fingers against the feverish skin of his ancient great-sire and began to probe.


	14. Chapter 14

Chapter Fourteen

Mingo felt the ropes binding his arms give way and fall to the ground. Massaging his wrists, he untied his feet and then lifted his head to find Nyota Uhura grinning at him. She really was a most beautiful woman, not only in face and form, but in character. He sensed in her a surety, a reliance and confidence that he had rarely encountered before even among men. Mingo watched as she turned to stare at the slaver who patrolled not far away, assessing what risk he posed. Dismissing the man as unimportant for the moment the dark-skinned woman angled her back toward him, glanced over her shoulder and asked a question with her resplendent brown eyes.

It only took a moment to untie her.

"Thank you," she whispered as she crouched beside him. "What next?"

Mingo glanced at her. There was something about Uhura's voice, her stance, that suggested she was used to following orders and was now looking toward _him_ to command. There was nothing subservient about the action. It was pure military.

He laughed out loud.

Nyota looked at him, puzzled. "I must have missed the joke. Is something amusing?"

"I meant no disrespect. I unexpectedly found myself picturing you in uniform."

"Well, what's wrong with – " She hesitated. "Oh, right. There _are_ no women in the military."

Not fully understanding what his mind was reaching for, Mingo added intuitively, " _Yet_." Then he said with a grin, "I have often remarked that if Rebecca Boone were made a general, this war would end within a week."

"War?" Uhura glanced at the slaver patrolling again. He was too close for them to attempt a move. Then she asked a peculiar question. "What year is it?"

"What year?" Mingo was even _more_ puzzled. "Why, seventeen seventy-seven. Did you not know?"

The woman smiled. "It seems I've been out of touch." Then to herself she added, so softly she probably thought he would not hear. "About five hundred _years_ out of touch."

Mingo placed a hand on her arm. "Nyota."

Her dark eyes sought his gaze. "Yes?"

"Who are you?"

Just as she opened her mouth to reply, another voice interrupted. "They are going away," Umbele called softly. She had been keeping a vigil as she promised while he and Uhura freed themselves, and had just wriggled through the leaves to join them. "Come and see."

Together they followed her. Once in position, they looked. She was right. Tume had returned. He stood in front of the lodge and called for the slavers to gather about him.

This was their chance.

"Umbele, I think it would be best if I carry you for the first hundred yards or so. Not only will you be hampered by the chains, but if they should make a noise…."

The woman nodded. "I agree."

Uhura's gaze took in the other slaves, still bound together and asleep. "I hate to leave them. That man – "

"If we do not escape, they _and_ we are dead," Mingo told her. "If we are successful, we can come back for them."

Uhura considered it. A wistful smile lit her handsome face. "If my friend was here, he would say that was 'quite logical'." She drew a breath and let it out in a sigh. "I hope Spock is all right."

Mingo's hand returned to her arm. "Did you say _Spock?_ "

"Yes." It only took a second for her puzzlement to turn to excitement. "Have you seen him? Do you know where he is? Is he _alive?_ "

He echoed her. "Yes. But there is no time for that now. We must make good our escape and then we can talk. You are the woman he said he was hunting. I can see that now."

Her smile broadened. "So long as he is alive that's all that matters."

Mingo nodded. He didn't want to tell her that the last time he had seen her friend, the space traveler had been dying. "He was when I left him," he assured her quietly. Then he gestured to Umbele. "Come. We must go."

Obedient to his command, the young woman crept closer to him. Mingo rose to his feet and positioned his hands on her waist. Lifting her, he balanced her weight so she rested comfortably on his shoulder. Uhura flanked him as he began to move, looking for all the world like a soldier at the alert for danger.

Who were these curious travelers, he wondered? _Why_ were they here?

And what had the Bantu woman meant by saying she had been out of touch for five _hundred_ years?

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Several miles away, a footsore Leonard McCoy and his slightly agitated companion arrived at the Boone's cabin. The newly risen moon painted the brown logs a steely blue and the door stood open, as if it had been abandoned. Rebecca Boone had told McCoy that her husband had taken off to find Spock shortly before she returned to the fort. She had hoped he and Yadkin would find the two of them there when they arrived.

From the looks of things, the pair had never come back.

Yadkin pushed past him and headed up the steps to the porch. "Come on, Doc," he called. "Best to see what's _in_ before we go lookin' for what might be _out._ Ain't no use pinin' over milk that ain't been spilt yet."

He couldn't argue with that. Still, as Yadkin passed over the threshold, McCoy hesitated. He reached into his medical bag and palmed his mediscanner. Checking first to make certain the frontiersman had gone inside, he set it for a wide range – and Vulcan physiology – and then turned in a circle seeking some sign, some direction. When the scanner remained silent, the surgeon cursed under his breath. He was just replacing it in the bag when Yadkin's blond head poked out the open door.

"You deaf?" he asked, screwing his face up. "Come on inside. You gotta see this, Doc. Ain't no one here, but there's a God awful lot of blood on the linens and it's a _mighty_ funny color."

McCoy nodded and followed with alacrity. Once inside, he saw that Yadkin had lit an oil lamp. After the near oblivion of dark in the forest, the single ray of light lit the interior of the Boone's home like the sun at noon. He actually squinted as his eyes settled on it.

Then they went to the bed.

" _Good God_ ," he murmured.

There was a bloody smear about where a man's back would have rested, and several more showing some kind of wound to the neck or head. But the greatest amount had been shed at the lower torso. McCoy walked over to examine the thick black substance. As Yadkin said, it was _mighty_ funny. That, of course, was because it was _Vulcan_ blood.

"As I told Mrs. Boone, there are certain _freaks_ of nature whose blood contains more copper elements than iron. My missing patient is one of these." McCoy's face twitched with the lie. "If you saw him bleed, you might think the color was…green."

Yadkin's blue eyes were wide. "You joshin' me?"

"Joshing?" McCoy frowned. "Oh. Am I kidding? No."

The blond man got a far-away look in his eyes. "Wonder what them Shawnee would think of a man's bleedin' green? Probably think he was some sort of a god…."

"Or demon," McCoy added wryly.

Yadkin snapped his fingers. "That's it! We could send those Shawnee packin' with someone like that. Scare the pants…er…breechclouts off of them!"

For some strange reason McCoy suddenly found himself imagining Spock in a breechcloth. He shook the image away. "Well, we'd have to find him first to try it, now wouldn't we?"

"That's the way my stick floats," the blond said as he pushed past him and headed for the door.

"What?"

The frontiersman paused by the opening. "Consarn it, if you ain't the most _citified_ fellow I ever met! That's the way _I_ see it. Now, come on. Time's a wastin'!"

At that moment Leonard McCoy would have traded his right arm for a universal translator. But then, he thought, that would have been pointless. Yadkin's lingo probably would have shorted it out.

Grabbing his bag he followed after the other man with a shout that he was, 'Coming!'

Outside McCoy found the frontiersman on all fours in front of the Boone's home. He almost stumbled over him in the dark. Catching himself, the surgeon let loose a curse and then said, "Damn it, man, I thought time was a _wastin_ '!"

Yadkin looked up at him, a giant grin on his face. "That was one bodacious curse, Doc. You've got the hair of the bear."

"Is that a good thing?"

The blond laughed as he turned back to the ground. "Been a whole passel of feet trompin' on this here patch of earth. This one is Becky," he pointed to a foot print with a slight, tapered toe. "And this one's Daniel's." Daniel Boone's print made two of his wife's. " _You_ know this one?" There was a tone of puzzlement in the frontiersman's voice.

McCoy bent down to look. He recognized the sole of a regulation issued 23rd century Starfleet boot. "Er, yes. That's my friend."

"Well, he's walkin'. Ain't walkin' well, but he was on his feet – and outpacing Dan," Yadkin added with a bark of laughter.

"What about all these others?" McCoy asked. The ground was literally trampled with prints, and it appeared something or someone had been dragged over some of them.

"Got me buffaloed," the blond said as he tipped back his hat.

McCoy knew that one. It meant he was confused. "And this? Was someone injured?"

"Dragged like a sack of potatoes." Yadkin rose to his feet. "Weren't Dan or your friend, nor was it Becky…." His voice trailed off. Then he snapped his fingers. "Mingo!"

"Mingo? Who or what is 'mingo'?" He wasn't sure if it was a name or just another expression in Yadkin's never-ending dictionary of 18th century colloquial speech. Then he remembered – Israel's friend.

The frontiersman knelt again and checked the track. "Wasn't no one short or lightweight. Gotta be Mingo. He's half-blood Cherokee. Friend of Daniel's. There's not a man on God's green earth got a greater talent for getting' into trouble."

"I wouldn't be so sure of that," McCoy muttered under his breath.

"What was that, Doc?"

"I asked, 'Are you sure of that?'"

"That man's poor bull and that be a sure fact," he said with a shake of his head as he rose to his feet.

"Poor bull?" McCoy stopped himself from scowling. He was getting a headache. "I take it that means 'yes'?"

Yadkin turned toward him and then slapped him so hard on the back the surgeon took an involuntary step forward.

"You're learnin' fast, Doc! For long, you'll be talkin' just like me."

McCoy rolled his eyes. Now wouldn't _that_ give Mr. Spock endless hours of delight?

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Mingo ran much farther with Umbele in his arms than the young woman would have liked. Uhura kept pace with him. Though her stride was much shorter than his, the journey did not tire her. Indeed, she seemed energized. When he finally signaled a halt, some two miles beyond the slavers' camp, the dark-skinned traveler was barely winded. Signaling her, he indicated they should duck into the cover of the trees. As he lowered Umbele to the ground, the chains around her ankles caught and she almost fell. Mingo frowned as he steadied her.

"The first thing we need to do is to find something to remove your fetters," he told her.

"I will not burden you," Umbele said, her jaw tightening. "I can walk."

"You _are_ no burden," he assured her gently. "I merely wish to see you free. Those chains bind you to slavery in more ways than one."

"And how is that?" she asked, her head held high.

Mingo had not had a chance to examine her. Umbele was thin as a river reed, with long dark hair woven tightly about her head in one thick braid. Her eyes were large by nature, and made even more so by her emaciated condition. Still, she was beautiful. At Oxford, the study of ancient Egypt had been an idle pastime for him as for many of his fellows. Umbele compared with Nefertiti. Her neck was slender, her poise naturally graceful, and there was about her an unmistakable aura of royalty.

The Cherokee warrior reached out and placed a hand on the iron encircling her slender wrist. "First, you are bound and are not free. That is bad enough. If seen wearing these, you will be immediately identified as a runaway. Otherwise, we might be able to pass you off as a freewoman like Nyota. And, so long as you wear them, these chains will bind you to the men who took you, physically and in your soul. There can be no forgiveness where – "

"There _is_ no forgiveness!" she hissed.

"I understand. I did not mean now, or for the men who took you. I meant for your own sake…."

Uhura had remained silent until that moment. Abruptly she said, "I can remove them."

Mingo turned to her. "The chains? How?"

Her dark eyes were troubled. "I am not certain why, but when I was taken I was not searched." She glanced at him and a wry smile curled her lips. "Forgive me." Then, as he watched, Uhura began to strip.

"Nyota!"

She laughed. "It's all right. I have another dress on underneath."

Mingo's eyes grew wide as he saw what she called a 'dress'. It was less modest than any woman's underpinnings. Any _strumpet's_ for that matter.

"You call that a dress?" he asked, dubious.

Uhura shrugged as she let the outer covering she had doffed fall to the ground. "Where I come from it's standard issue." She pursed her lips and then rephrased. "This is the standard mode of dress."

The Cherokee warrior's lips twisted with amusement – and just a hint of interest. "You must take me there sometime."

The woman in crimson cloth actually laughed. Then she stepped forward and took him by the arm. "May I speak to you _alone?_ "

Umbele scowled, but did nothing as they stepped several feet away. "What is it?" he asked.

Uhura placed a hand on a small pouch she wore suspended from a light strap that ran over her shoulder. "In here, I have something that can cut Umbele's chains. It is…a magic from my land. I am not permitted to use it in front of strangers, but I fear…. I fear if I do _not_ that those men will recapture her and us. I can't let that happen. I have to find Spock."

Mingo's eyes flicked to Umbele who had seated herself on a rock. They had already tarried too long. The slavers _must_ be aware of their escape by now.

"We _should_ get going," he insisted.

"It will only take a second."

"A second? To cut through several inches of forged iron?"

Uhura drew a breath and let it out slowly. Then she reached into the pouch and drew out what looked like an odd gun. She checked something on the top of it and shrugged. "It is almost dead," she announced, glancing up at him. "I hope there is enough power left."

The Cherokee in him fought a rising fear. "Dead? Then, was it…alive?"

The traveler frowned. Then she smiled. "No. I'm sorry. I meant _dead_ like a fire dies. Not that it was or _is_ living. It holds within it a kind of flame. It concentrates it so it burns very brightly and is very, _very_ hot. I can use it to…melt the metal. But…."

"But?"

Her head shook. "It is dangerous that I show you – and Umbele."

He stared at her for several moments. "You have not asked about Spock," he said at last.

The statement caught her off-guard. "I had almost forgotten…."

"There is no time now. But you are like him, a space traveler, are you not?"

The black woman _was_ stunned. Her words were breathless. "Did he tell you that?"

"Yes. He was bleeding profusely." Mingo paused and then added with a slight grin, "He had some trouble explaining the _green_ stains."

"I can see why…." Uhura nodded at last. "We come from the stars. But I cannot tell you more. I dare not."

Unexpectedly Umbele appeared beside them. "Someone is coming," she whispered as her chains clanked, sounding through the still night air.

Mingo looked back the way they had come. He could see a light approaching through the dense trees. He caught Umbele in his arms and lifted her. Together, the three of them dove for cover. Once concealed, they hunched down together and waited for whatever was to come.

A minute later the first man walked past their hiding place. Then two more. Then a half-dozen. And then, ten, twenty, _more._

"Who are they?" Uhura whispered, her lips brushing his ear. "Where are they going?"

Mingo didn't reply even though he knew the answer, Just as he knew many of the men. They were native; their faces and shirts painted red. The Shawnee had awakened and were on the warpath.

They were headed for Boonesborough.

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Tume stood at the edge of the clearing, staring at the remaining prisoners. Crumpled at his feet lay the body of the inept and ignorant white man he had left to guard them. Solomon had failed him. He had left his post when Tume had called for the others and for the desertion, had been executed. The elegant black man shrugged as he toed the cooling corpse. It was no great loss. There were plenty of other gullible _Earthers_ he could get to do his bidding.

The loss of the prisoners, though, that was _another_ matter.

The Cherokee had been taken to use against Daniel Boone. Tume had been ordered to secure and hold him for D'Ayron in case something went amiss with the Romulan's scheme. As such, his loss was not of too much import. The Federation woman and Umbele were another matter. Nyota Uhura was from the future. With her knowledge, she _could_ betray or delay their schemes. And Umbele…. Well, Umbele was the key so far as Tume was concerned. Let the Romulans play with the Indians. He had other _darker_ allies in mind. The African population of this nascent country was vast. Male slaves, those who did the hardest labor, were well fed and grew strong and tall, often towering above their white masters. Nearly _one third_ of the population of the United States was black. Armed and angry they would make a formidable force as had been shown in incidents that had erupted throughout the land. Armed with _superior_ weapons and knowledge, in time they would become its rulers and kings. That was, if no one arose to tell them different, to weaken their resolve and call for peace. In little more than one hundred years, Umbele's offspring would arise and be just such a man. In time, he would become something of a king. Better that he not be born. Better that he not be given a chance to undo what Tume intended to be done.

Better that the woman die here and now.

"Sir?"

Tume stirred from his musings and turned to look at his second-in-command. Marcus was a time traveler like him, and like him had been genetically altered to fit in. "Yes?" the black man asked.

Marcus stepped over Solomon's corpse as if it were nothing more than an anthill. "Word has come, Tume. The attack has begun. D'Ayron's men are on the move. Along with the Shawnee, they will arrive at Boonesborough tonight. When the cocks crow in the morning, before the settlement can wake, they will attack."

"Is D'Ayron with them?"

His lieutenant shook his head. "No. S'Tahl leads."

Tume mulled that over. The Romulan Commander delayed so he had time to play with his _prize_. "And what new orders does D'Ayron send? Did any arrive with his messenger?"

"D'Ayron repeats his order to bring the Federation woman to him."

"Does he?" Tume ran a hand over his chin as he gazed at the space the missing woman had occupied. His face was beardless now and always felt odd. "And the order was the same? The hour is now?"

"It said as soon as possible."

"As soon as… _possible_." Tume's dark fingers played with the hilt of the knife anchored to his waist. "Well, since the lady is no longer our guest, it is not _possible_ at the moment. Is it?" His lips curled with a sneer. "Unless, of course, we recapture her."

Marcus hesitated. A shiver, barely suppressed, shook him. "You will not go then? You will _defy_ him? D'Ayron is powerful. He is Romulan and…more. He – "

"He bleeds _green_ like any other Vulcanoid," Tume growled. "He is not invulnerable. Nor is he immortal." The black man stretched out a hand and placed it on his lieutenant's shoulder. "We will seek the woman. We will find her – and Umbele – and we will return with them. Then we shall report to D'Ayron." Tume's fingers gripped his lieutenant's shoulder, startling him.

"And then D'Ayron will die!"


	15. Chapter 15

Chapter Fifteen

The place was dark and empty as the void. Vacant. Barren.

Lifeless.

He existed, but he had no existence. He lived, but his body did not breathe. His heart was slowing and its pulse had all but stopped. He had no thoughts. Except, the thought that he had none.

No. _No._

Retreat. There is no thought. There is no life.

There is no Spock.

 _You cannot resist me._

Thought curled in upon flesh, seeking the security known only in the womb. Spock had created a new womb; one of darkness. One of death.

 _No. You will_ not _die. I will not let you. Spock, I will hold you here. Your mind living in a useless form. Trapped. Trammeled._

 _Mine. Mine forever._

No. The mind cannot survive without the body. I will be free.

 _You will not. I_ can _hold you here. You can feel it. You_ know _it!_

He did. But he did not understand _how._

The mental manifestation of Spock's lean form uncurled. The black void surrounding him was of his own making. It was a protective barrier raised against whatever mind sought to invade his without permission. The uninvited mindmeld was tantamount to rape. He had preferred death to it, but found now he was not to have that choice.

"Who are you that you would seek to perpetrate such an evil?" Spock demanded, his mental voice hoarse and ringing with the exhaustion of his physical being.

 _It is not rape._ There was light lilt to the other's thoughts, an ironic laughter. _I am family._

"Family?" Spock opened up just the slightest bit to feel out the other mind attempting to contact his. It was alien in many ways. "You are Romulan."

 _Yes. And I am family._

"That is not logical."

The mind darkened. _It is not now. Nor was it then. But the exchange was permanent._

It spoke those words as if there were some meaning to them. As if _he_ should know what it was. Spock's astral head shook. "I do not understand."

 _Allow me in. Then, you will._

"That would not be wise."

The pressure of the mind increased. _'The wise through excess of wisdom is made a fool.' You are but young. When you are older, you will understand._

Spock frowned. The mind he touched was not ancient, but younger than his. "Is the child then father to the man?"

Unexpectedly the alien mind dissolved into laughter. _Yes. Yes!_

The Vulcan hesitated. Though he would never admit it to Dr. McCoy, he had to acknowledge at least _one_ natural failing – insatiable curiosity. The alien had piqued his interest.

"Advance," he said. Spock intended to let the other come closer, but not so close he could not throw up the mental barricades necessary to prevent a total meld. As the Vulcan watched a light appeared in the distance, disturbing the perfect blackness of the self-imposed prison he had confined himself within. A figure appeared – tall, slender, broader of build than him, but moving with a certain familiarity. In a way, it put him in mind of a younger, leaner version of his father. The figure was Vulcanoid, but not Vulcan. His hair was a deep umber, long and unkempt, and his eyes an unusual shade of amber. His skin was a light bronze, though there was about it a hint of teal, as if its metal had weathered too long in a harsh environment. The Romulan wore the simple black singlet and pants of a Starfleet officer, though Spock instinctively knew he was nothing of the kind. The astral projection of the other's mind-self glided forward until it rested several meters away. There he waited for permission to draw closer.

"What is your name?" Spock asked.

 _S'chn T'gai D'Ayron._ The laughter returned at the Vulcan's startled reaction _. For ten generations and three centuries the eldest male of my father's house has born this name._

"It is – "

Your _name._ _S'chn T'gai Spock, son of Sarek, son of Skon, son of Solkar._

It was impossible. No outsider – no _outworlder_ could know. It was not spoken. Except… _to_ family.

D'Ayron's form scintillated against the black void like a star come to rest. He lifted one hand and held it out palm open. Spock hesitated. There was no knowing what encountering an alien mind in his weakened state would mean. He might be able to retain his individual identity, but then again, he might _not._ Still, logic dictated there was little choice. This man – this mind – would not let him die.

Therefore, he must take the risk.

"Very well," Spock said, extending his own hand in like fashion. "Any scientific theory must be based on a careful and rational examination of the facts. I await your presentation of the same."

 _My house was not born in rational fact, Vulcan, but in a passionate act._ The Romulan leaned forward so they touched, palm to palm. _See!_

Spock stiffened. The woman was intelligent and beautiful, in every way his equal. Her taut uniformed frame barely came to his shoulder. Her hair, like her skin, was a warm bronze; her eyes, brown shot with a fiery gold. He watched her lounge and saw the hunger for him in her eyes. Then he leaned forward to hear her private name whispered in his ear.

 _Dyan._

He felt a hunger he had not known since the pon far. It was a myth that Vulcan males were not sexual creatures; that they felt such urges, such a _need_ only once every seven years. The time of mating was a time of children, when Vulcan males were called home to propagate the race. They could know passion at other times.

 _Did_ know passion.

He had betrayed her. He felt the sting of Dyan's strong hand on his cheek, condemning him for being what he _had_ to be, but even more he felt the sting of her rejection. When his duty ended, he went to the quarters the captain had assigned her on the Enterprise. She was to be treated as a guest, and not a prisoner. He went to explain. To make her see the logic of his actions.

What happened between them then was anything but logical. He was a Starfleet officer and she….

Dyan was a Romulan Commander.

As was her ten times great-grandson.

 _His_ son.

Spock reared back from the meld gasping. Though his form was mental, it was shaking.

"That is…was not me."

D'Ayron came even closer. _No, it was not, my great-sire._

 _But it_ will _be._

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

James Kirk knelt beside the big frontiersman. Daniel Boone was reading sign. He pointed to a pair of boot-prints and then to the trail between them. Kirk nodded. They had found the place in the foliage that had been struck by phaser fire. It had puzzled the trailblazer, but he had put it off to a flash fire of some kind. Kirk knew better. He knew, as well, from the amount of destruction that the phaser had been set for a thermal effect, just shy of kill. If Spock had been hit directly –

No. That didn't make sense. Why would his attackers drag his _dead_ body with them? Still, the intensity of the blast bothered him. Was there something else? Was someone playing some kind of a game? Was there, perhaps, some division among the time travelers' agents? Kirk sighed. Speculation. Something he often required of Spock, though he knew the Vulcan preferred not to say anything until he had cold, hard facts to base his opinion on.

He only hoped he would have the opportunity to ask for it again.

"Whoever they were. they're headed for the Shawnee lands," Daniel Boone said quietly. "What would the Shawnee want with your friend?"

Kirk shook his head. "I haven't the foggiest."

Boone pivoted toward him. He tipped his coonskin cap back on his head. "Ain't you ever heard that honesty is the best policy?"

"I have. But I have also heard that loose lips sink ships." As the frontiersman scowled, he amended it. "Or to quote Ben Franklin, 'Three may keep a secret if two are dead.'"

"So you're askin' for my trust, but offerin' nothin' to back it up?"

How many times had other men asked him the same thing? "Mr. Boone…."

"Daniel."

Kirk nodded. "Daniel. Have you ever had knowledge that you knew to be so vitally important you couldn't share it with anyone, not even your family? Knowledge that you knew – should others become aware of it – could influence, no, _change_ the future path of everyone and everything you care about?"

The frontiersman didn't look convinced. "I might."

"My friend and I, we're…on a secret mission for the government. We're a part of the…Indian department. The Shawnee are on the warpath." Kirk paused and when the other man did not refute him, knew he had guessed right. "We're here to prevent a war."

"You come to stop Rain of Stars and Unemake?"

Kirk nodded. Whoever the hell they were. "Right."

Dan's grin was lazy, as well as crafty. "Ain't hidin' in a hollow a funny way to do that?"

"Recognizance. It's put us on their trail, hasn't it?"

"Seems like your friend's fallin' into their hands did that." The frontiersman's hazel eyes, so like his own, bored into him. "Or are you sayin' _that_ was planned?"

"Oh, I _always_ have a plan," Kirk insisted, employing his most winning smile – to no avail. Daniel Boone was not fooled. Not in the slightest.

"As one man with a plan to another," the frontiersman said, winking, "I know most of mine are thought up as I'm high-tailing it out of the fire and back into the pan."

Kirk laughed. "You don't believe in no-win situations, do you?"

Daniel was completely sober. "Do you?"

The starship captain had always known that his forebears were the men who sailed the seas and the ones who blazed the trails through unknown lands. They were the men who would not quit, would not give up, would not say 'can't' no matter what they faced; no matter what they lost. He had never thought to meet one, to speak with such a man face to face. He was now. And it was immensely satisfying.

"No."

"What's your rank?" Boone asked.

Kirk smiled. "Captain."

The frontiersman seemed surprised. For a second Kirk was puzzled, then he remembered that though he was the youngest man to command a starship, in the nineteenth century thirty-six was considered old.

"I prefer to be in the field," he added quietly. "The life of a general or admiral is not for me."

Daniel Boone nodded his understanding. "Well, Captain Kirk, don't you think it's about time we go rescue that friend of yours?"

"You're hoping your friend is there, aren't you?" They had spoken about the English educated Cherokee who was Daniel Boone's second shadow, the way Spock was his. The two men sounded much alike – both belonged to two worlds, they were intelligent and somewhat melancholy, entirely curious, and _very_ prone to get themselves into trouble. As he listened to the frontiersman speak about his friend, Kirk had been struck by the parallels.

If a nineteenth century Bones showed up….

"Bones," he muttered. He had been so intent on finding Spock, he had nearly forgotten there were others of his crew missing. McCoy. Uhura. Deevers….

"Bones?" Daniel asked.

"Another friend. Also missing."

The lanky frontiersman stood up. He shook his head as he said, "Maybe you better run a line next time you go huntin' the Shawnee, so's you can keep together – " Dan broke off abruptly.

Kirk was instantly alert. "What? What is it?"

" _Shawnee._ Come on!"

James Kirk followed the big man into the underbrush. The sun was just appearing on the horizon and thankfully it cast long concealing shadows. Holding his breath, the starship captain waited for his first glimpse of native might.

It was impressive. Nearly one hundred armed men passed by them, marching not in form like the British, but shoulder to shoulder as brothers. They were dressed for war with the shoulders of their white trade shirts smeared with red paint like blood and their bodies decked out in like fashion. They were both impressive and terrifying, and reminded him somewhat of a squadron of Klingons in both demeanor and apparent ferocity. The amount of weapons they bore was staggering: knives, clubs, flintlock rifles and pistols, pipe tomahawks, and something resembling a bolo as well as bows and arrows. An older man danced at the front of the mostly silent crowd, chanting and waving a smoking torch and bear claw wand. He must be the shaman, Kirk thought, assuring them that their God would not desert them, that he would keep them from the touch of the bullet and from death.

Kirk glanced at the big man beside him. Daniel Boone's face was set with grim determination. The frontiersman was ready to kill them all to protect his home and those he loved. And yet, wasn't that what the natives were doing? Hadn't they owned this land _first_ , lived here, and tended it well before the white civilization had arrived to push them out? To take the land and end their way of life? The thought made him pause. As a military man, he was always so sure of what he did. So certain that the Klingons or Romulans were wrong. But didn't his enemies in turn believe _him_ wrong? And were they in error?

 _Could_ he be wrong?

"James." Daniel Boone's hand came down on his shoulder.

He turned toward the other man. Boone looked ill. "What? What is it?"

"You'll have to go on alone. I have to go back. To the settlement."

"Why?"

The frontiersman nodded toward the retreating mob. "That was Unemake out front. The medicine man."

"So?"

"Did you hear him?"

Kirk shrugged. "I'm afraid I don't speak Shawnee."

"I do. Old Blackfish took me for a son a while back. I learned to speak their tongue." The big man rose to his feet and stepped out onto the path. "Somethin's changed. We made our peace with the Shawnee last year, but these men, they're on the warpath.

"They mean to burn Boonesborough to the ground."

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Spock denied the pain he felt; denied as well the moan that escaped his lips as he came back to consciousness. But he could not deny the knowledge he carried with him from the meld. _Undeniable_ knowledge of his own illogical behavior and how it had created a future that now threatened all he knew and cared about.

A hand briefly touched his shoulder and a deep voice intoned, "Do not try to stand. I will get you some water and then something to eat. You are not well. You must renew your strength."

A pair of leather moccasin boots walked away from him. Spock blinked and frowned. The voice was the same, but this was not the man dressed in Starfleet blacks – or was it? His catlike grace was the same, the form and figure. The Vulcan tried to raise himself up on one elbow for a better look, but only succeeded in making his head spin and forcing his empty stomach to heave.

"Here." Strong hands caught him and raised him up, and then braced his back against a wall of hewn logs. The man who spoke crouched before him. It _was_ D'Ayron, but the Romulan was dressed differently. He wore the attire of a native and was outfitted in a white linen shirt with several beaded sashes crossed over it, and a pair of leather pants over which he wore a painted breechcloth. Silver dripped from his ears and hung about his neck, as well as banding the arms of the shirt. His hair was long and unruly, as it had appeared in the meld, but it was not unadorned. Feathers, beads and more silver ornaments occupied it. Just beneath one elevated umber eyebrow, on his left cheek, there was a single handprint painted in what looked like human blood. The Romulan/Vulcan/Human hybrid that was his descendant rocked back on his heels to examine him. "You're a mess," he pronounced.

"Applicable, if not entirely appropriate," Spock replied.

D'Ayron shook his head. An affectionate smile twisted his lips. "I've watched the holos. I always thought the cold restrained Vulcan was an act. I know now it is and _isn't_." His fingers went to his temple. "I _know_."

"You knew before," Spock said softly. The mindmeld had not gone only _one_ way. "It is why _you_ are different."

The Romulan shook his head. "Two hundred years, Vulcan. Two _hundred._ There can be little of you left in me."

Spock was silent a moment. "You would know."

A flicker of anger kissed the commander's amber eyes. "Yes. I would. But we are not here to talk about me."

"No?" Spock coughed. He shifted to ease the pain in his back now twice burned. Whoever had captured him, had been at pains to kill him without appearing to mean to. "What is it you wish to discuss?"'

For a moment, D'Ayron was at a loss. Spock had sensed his curiosity in the link; his discovery of Spock's own presence in this timeline and place, and his _need_ to make contact. In truth, the Romulan had endangered his mission by seeking him out, creating a time tube to bring him here, and in capturing him. It was a fact Spock hoped to use against him.

"I have never understood why Vulcan chose to embrace logic and peace over strength and war. Our peoples could have been _brothers_ , not long distant and disparate cousins. Your people have powers of the mind mine lack. Together…." The man who was child to the father long removed gazed longingly at him. When he spoke, his voice had softened and Spock knew the words were meant only for _him._ "Together, we could achieve much."

"What could we achieve?"

D'Ayron shifted into a seated position. "Do you know why I and my men are here?"

Spock did not, and the fact that he had not computed a hypothesis bothered him. "No."

"In the future – _your_ future, Spock, and my near past – the knowledge of time travel first discovered by the Enterprise at Psi-2000 and later used in Sector 90.4, will become a tool of war. Each side will send its own agents into the past to alter it, so their ultimate goals will be reached. The war will devastate our galaxy. Nothing and no one will be – _is_ safe. In time a race of powerful beings – the Initiators is what they call themselves – became aware of this. They have come here to stop it. They are here to undo what has been done – using their own agents to do what _must_ be done to return the time stream to its proper place." He paused and something entered his eyes, an unspeakable grief or unholy joy. "Some among them think there is only one way to stop the war."

When he did not go on, Spock prompted him. "And that would be?"

"To destroy those who first unleashed the knowledge of time teleportation upon the galaxy."

Spock's hot blood ran cold. "The Enterprise."

D'Ayron nodded. "After you left, several attempts were made to kill your shipmates. They were thwarted by one of the travelers, but in the end she cannot succeed."

"There is no proof of that. Is one traveler more powerful than another?"

"Some are more…aggressive. Some will stop at nothing to obtain their ends."

Spock was silent a moment. Then he asked, "Are you one of them?"

The Romulan's jaw tightened. "If I was, _you_ would not be alive."

"So I am supposed to die. Is that why the one named Tume has attempted to kill me twice now?"

D'Ayron seemed startled. "Tume? No, he is my man. He was sent to bring you here to me."

"Then he is _not_ your man." Spock drew a slow breath against the pain. As they spoke the fever in his veins continued to press at him, seeking dominance. While speaking to D'Ayron, he could not concentrate on controlling the spread of the infection. He had been pushed past his limits and he knew it. His body hurt like Dr. McCoy's proverbial _hell_. "Tume deliberately brought me out of the Vulcan healing trance too soon and left me to die. And he used a phaser just past setting two in the forest." Spock grimaced. "It was my intention to move out of the way, but my own clumsiness prevented it and I received a glancing blow."

The Romulan's jaw had tightened with each word. Behind his eyes lightning fast information flashed and all of the bits and pieces suddenly fit. "He has betrayed me. He will die. For this, Tume _will_ die."

Spock's words were cold, and calculated to be so. "Tume would question your motivation. Is not _he_ the one obeying orders?"

The Romulan bristled. "No. He does not work for the ones who mean to end this. He works for me. We are here to alter the future so that the lambs will become one with the wolves." D'Ayron smiled. It was slow in coming and sly. "We work so that your vaunted Federation will become a force of destructive might."

The Vulcan was surprised. "How can altering Earth's history in backwater nineteenth century Kentucky accomplish such a wide-ranging goal?"

"This is but the beginning. But consider – what if the natives, so like the Romulans and Klingons in their savagery – are the conquerors? What if the white civilization never takes hold? What if Starfleet arises out of a _warrior_ race?"

"You mean to alter the outcome of the Indian Wars?"

"And of the Revolution. This place is key. For this part, one _man_ is key. And he is here."

"Who?"

The Romulan shook his head. "No. I will not tell you."

"Not even if your father commands it?" Spock asked, straight-faced.

D'Ayron's dark eyes were locked on him. "I have risked much to have you with me," he said softly.

"Tume will kill you. You know that."

The commander dismissed the threat with a sharp gesture. "He will not. He is due here any time with the woman. When he comes, my men – who _are_ Romulan – will take him and he will be mine. Then he will pay for his treachery."

"For his _loyalty_."

"You will be silent."

"Or what?" Spock answered, his tone infuriatingly calm.

"Or…." The Romulan hesitated. He had no answer. Standing, he shouted a name and waited until a man came to the lodge door. He was deeply tanned and appeared to be a white man. Spock suspected he had been surgically altered. He was obviously one of D'Ayron's band. The Romulan issued orders and, when the other man left to execute them, came back to his side. "Levar will take you into the hills. He will keep you there. I must join the war."

"What war?" Spock asked.

D'Ayron's dark eyes sought his. There was little joy in them, but there was a fanatical fire. "Even now the Shawnee, equipped by my men with the next evolution in rifles, are marching on Boonesborough. They will destroy the settlement and all within. With this victory, the native population will be ignited. Led by Unemake and their war chief, Rain of Stars, the Shawnee will reach out to the other nations; natives will band together creating an army that cannot be stopped. By the turn of the century, the white man will be driven from these shores and a new people will arise, one worthy to eventually take to the stars and take their place at the side of the Romulans.

"Your mother's people, my great-sire, will be worthy in time of what they begot."


	16. Chapter 16

Chapter Sixteen

In the end Kirk decided to go with Daniel Boone. It was another hunch – an inspired guess – that he should do so. It bothered him that he must abandon Spock, but somehow he had the feeling that if he didn't figure out what was going on and stop it, it would matter little if he found the Vulcan – or Dr. McCoy and the others. The woman, the alien being he had spoken to in Spock's quarters had said little but hinted at much. The time travelers had come to this place, to this particular moment, for a reason. It was _pivotal._ He glanced at his companion. He and the frontiersman were jogging at speed through the wilderness. Daniel Boone's settlement was crucial to the opening of the west and the expansion of the United States of America, and to its eventual dominance in the world. As such the _man_ himself was crucial. It would grieve him, Kirk knew not _how_ deeply, if Spock died. He had had a touch of it when the Vulcan had come close on several missions and he knew it was like looking at the loss of half his soul. But if the man running beside him died, then thousands, perhaps millions of others might. There was also the fact that the United States, the country that had given him birth, might have her course altered irretrievably and in turn, the future of the galaxy would be changed.

He had come to believe _that_ was what all of this was about.

Kirk felt Daniel Boone's hand on his arm. He stopped. Both of them were winded, but far from worn out.

"Are we there?" he asked.

The frontiersman shook his head. "'Bout a mile or so out."

"Reason?"

Dan's head with its coonskin cap indicated the trees before them. "There's a natural hollow ahead, a giant basin somethin' like the small one you hid in. It'd hold a hundred men."

"So you are thinking the Shawnee are waiting there? Waiting for what?"

Dan pursed his lips. "At nightfall, men are watchful. Midway through there's a new guard posted. Near dawn, when everyone is waking, men get slack. The women will have to go out for water…."

"It's the best time to attack."

He nodded. "Yep."

Kirk pursed his lips as well, in unconscious imitation of his companion. He mentally ticked off how many men had marched past them. "Fifty or so to one," he said softly, "I wonder what odds Spock would calculate on our success."

"I know what Mingo'd do. He'd roll those dark eyes of his and say, 'Daniel….' Then he'd jump into the fray."

"And enjoy it," Jim laughed. "I think Spock enjoys it too, though he'd never let himself admit it."

"I always thought Mingo was bound up more tightly than any man I ever met, but your Mr. Spock takes the cake."

Kirk recognized the colloquialism though it was no longer in current use. "That he does," he answered with an affectionate smile. "Spock's half-human heritage…." He paused. His growing familiarity with the frontiersman was making him careless. "His half-white heritage troubles him."

Boone had not missed it. "What's the other half if it ain't _human?_ "

"Daniel, I – "

Kirk was saved from the lie as the big man's attention turned from his absent first officer to the area before them. Words drifted back on the breeze. The starship captain thought he caught the voice of the shaman who had led the Shawnee, but there was another – a more commanding one addressing them now.

"Shall we creep in closer and see what is happening?" he asked.

Daniel Boone turned back and eyed him. "I ain't one for quoting Shakespeare, but there's one I heard Mingo use often enough to know it. James, there's somethin' rotten stinkin' in Denmark, and once you and I deal with the Shawnee, I mean to figure out just what it is."

"Perhaps the Shawnee just need a bath," Kirk attempted with his usual winning grin.

"Maybe." Dan started to move forward. "And maybe you boys just ain't from around here."

"Where do you think we're from?"

The frontiersman glanced back at him. "Ain't sure. I'll let you know when I figure it out."

And with that he disappeared into the leaves.

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"Consarn it if you ain't the most difficult feller a body ever had to deal with!" Carolina Yadkin's whisper was fierce. "Unless you want that there head of hair to be hangin' from a stick!"

Dr. McCoy turned toward Yadkin's voice only to discover that the blond man was gone. They had been walking north, following the trail left by Spock and Daniel Boone. "What? Where are you?"

"Here, you idjit!" Yadkin's hand shot out and grabbed his arm. A moment later McCoy stumbled back into the leaves and landed on his posterior. He opened his mouth to protest, but the frontiersman clamped a not too clean hand over it and shushed him. "You must be deafer than a post," he whispered.

The surgeon's eyes widened as he heard what the blond man had heard; the sound of a dozen or so soft footfalls. He signaled to Yadkin that he could remove his hand. When his companion did so, reluctantly, the surgeon leaned forward to observe who was passing by.

It was a party of painted natives kitted out for war, complete with bows, rifles, and a frightening array of primitive bladed weapons. They were hustling along, as if late for something important. McCoy concentrated on their excited voices as they passed by, but caught very little. Once more, he wished he had that universal translator. Next time some alien sent him leaping into the past, he intended to come better prepared! As the last of the war party ran by, McCoy turned to the other man and whispered, "Did you understand what they were saying?"

"Don't speak much Shawnee," Yadkin asserted as he parted the leaves and stepped back onto the trail. He anchored his hands on his hips and shook his head. "It's some big doin's. I did hear one mention _gim-e-wane Al-ag-wa."_

"What does that mean?" McCoy asked, dusting himself off.

"A shower, or stars raining, or some such thing. Them Shawnee are mighty superstitious. It's a big thing to them." He looked up. "Has to do with one of them stars that shoots across the sky."

"A comet? Did you see one lately?"

"Yesterday," the blond man answered, pulling at his mustache.

McCoy looked up as well. Or maybe the trail left by a descending shuttlecraft in trouble?

Yadkin shrugged. "Might as have to do with that. But that ain't why they was talkin' about Rain of Stars."

The surgeon looked at his companion. "No?"

"Nope. Them Shawnee, they got themselves a new war chief. He's a mean cuss. Goes by the _name_ of Rain of Stars."

"Oh, I see. Is he here then, do you think? In the forest?"

Yadkin lifted his rifle and tucked it under his arm. "Ain't sure, but I say we go see. You game, Doc?"

"Are they going the same way Spock and Daniel Boone did?"

"Yep. Straight as an arrow."

 _Oh joy_ , he thought. "How many of them are there, do you think? Just these dozen or so?"

Yadkin was staring at him – like he was an unweaned pup. "Ain't no one never taught you nothin'? Where's there's one of them heathen savages, there's a hundred! Maybe a thousand!"

McCoy gulped. "A thousand?"

The blond man approached him. "Don't worry, Doc!" he said as he pounded him on the back, "the clearin's outside Boonesborough ain't big enough for more than two hundred at most!"

McCoy eyed the forbidding foliage surrounding them. _That_ made him feel a lot better.

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Daniel Boone put a finger to his lips and then urged Kirk forward with a nod. They had crept incredibly close to the milling and muttering crowd of Shawnee. Boone had been right, there was a natural depression in the land. It was skirted by ancient trees and bordered on three sides by a high rock wall covered in moss and vines. At one point along the ridge the stone broke horizontally, creating an opening in the cliff's face that resembled a natural stage, thus turning the hollow into a giant amphitheater. On that stage stood an impressive native dressed in a mix of colonial and native garb. He was taller by a good five or six inches than the men who flanked him. His coloring, while not entirely wrong for the indigenous population of Kentucky, indicated there was other blood in him than Shawnee. He held himself like a king; not with arrogance, but with that natural sense of superiority that comes from being born to command.

The hollow had grown so quiet you could hear the proverbial pin drop.

Kirk listened a moment and then glanced at his companion. The man on the stage was speaking Earth standard instead of Shawnee.

Daniel shrugged. The frontiersman's words were barely audible above the rustling of the trees. "Must be a mix of tribes here. They're mostly Shawnee, but there's faces I don't know. They might not know the local lingo."

The starship captain nodded and turned back to learn what he could. Rain of Stars had begun to speak. The man's voice was powerful; his presence, magnetic. He began by reminding the Shawnee of where they had come from, of who they were and what their destiny was as written by their god. Then he turned, subtly, to the loss of their sacred lands and the evils perpetrated upon them by the white man; and of the hardship and loss endured by the people. The war chief called on the gathered men to remember the grief and anger they knew as their loved ones died in their arms. No longer, he said, would they feel such helplessness. No longer would they question whether they were men. Tonight, Rain of Stars declared, vengeance would be theirs. In response to a general chorus of agreement, the war chief lifted his hands to the sky. He stood, soaking in their righteous fury.

Kirk turned to the frontiersman who was listening intently. His earlier thoughts still needled him. "He has a point," the starship captain said softly.

Dan pursed his lips. "Could be. But then he ain't talkin' about the wars between the Indians where they killed one another almost to the man. Or about the innocent white women and children left scalped and bleedin' in their beds." Daniel's hazel eyes flicked to him and then quickly returned to the scene below. "No war is one-sided, James."

Kirk stared at him a moment and then nodded. The issues here were not clear cut. It wasn't the Federation and the Klingons. Here, neither side had clean hands.

The men had quieted and Rain of Stars was speaking again. Kirk scowled. He wished he could get closer. There was something about the war chief that was impossibly familiar, but the subtle nuances he needed to observe to pin it down were impossible to see from this distance.

"Can we get closer?" he whispered to his companion.

A spark of recklessness flickered in the frontiersman's eyes. "I was wonderin' when you'd ask."

Together the pair crept forward, hugging the shadows and the natural cover of the land. When they halted, they were less than one hundred feet from the stage. Between them and the war chief was a sea of native bodies, all decorated with feathers and paint; each and every one of them ready for war.

"Tonight," Rain of Stars declared as he strode to the far side of the platform away from them, "tonight it begins! And though Unemake has told you that you will not die, making a shaman's promises, I say some of you shall!" There was a general murmur of dismay and shouts of disapproval. The war chief held up his hands and waited for silence. " _Nothing_ great is accomplished without loss of life. The gods demand sacrifice! Some of you will be spared to fight another day, but to those who are not, I say they shall know _glory!_ "

Kirk's interest ratcheted up a notch. What was this? A primitive who didn't believe in his shaman's magic? Could Rain of Stars have been educated in white schools, perhaps even in Europe? His speech was eloquent, well thought out and compelling, but there was nothing about him that shouted he was out of place – or out of time. Squinting, the starship captain focused on the war chief. He was over six foot, which was unusual in this time period – Kirk glanced at his companion – but not _that_ unusual. His hair was near black, as expected. Well-built, muscular. For the man to survive to his late twenties, as he looked to have done, then he would have to be able to defend himself. Kirk waited as Rain of Stars moved to the center of the natural stage and then walked toward them. As he came to a rest, the moonlight struck him fully. What Kirk saw took his breath away.

Rain of Stars could have been Spock's brother.

Daniel Boone had not missed the startling likeness either. "You think they could be related?"

Kirk quickly shook his head. Then, he thought about it. Spock did have human ancestors. Who knew what stock Amanda Grayson's line had arisen from? Though he had always thought Spock got his darkly handsome looks from his Vulcan father.

"Take up your arms, my brothers," Rain of Stars urged. "Lift them high!" As the Shawnee did what he asked, whooping and shouting, he continued, speaking over the savage noise. "Tonight the purge begins! Your actions this night will fall as the first footsteps on the path that will lead to a world ruled by the red man! Tonight – " The war chief stopped. His lean face grew thoughtful. He closed his eyes as if thinking. Then they snapped open suddenly.

"Spies!" Rain of Stars declared, pointing directly at their hiding place. "There are _spies_ among us. Take them!"

Kirk glanced at Daniel Boone. The frontiersman shrugged and then slid back into the leaves.

It was a good thing Spock hadn't been around to calculate those odds.

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"Will you look at that!" Yadkin whistled low as he hefted his rifle and sighted along the barrel. "Like picking birds off a fence. I ain't seen so many of them ignorant savages come to one place with murder on their minds since old Blackfish tried to take the fort back in '75."

Dr. McCoy was growing tired of his companion's bloodthirsty nature. The blond frontiersman seemed to find it impossible to think of the natives occupying the hollow below them as men – but then again the surgeon had to admit, that was a common enough practice even in _his_ century. Turn your enemy into a _thing_ instead of a man, and you can kill him with impunity. McCoy reached out and placed his hand on the barrel, tipping it toward the ground. "Put that thing down!" he growled.

"You got a death wish, Doc?" the blond man asked, one eye shut and still looking.

"I don't want anyone to die! I'm a surgeon not a murderer!"

"Murder? Why this ain't murder." Yadkin lowered the rifle and looked at him. "You ever seen what them heathen savages do to white men and women?"

"Have you ever _seen_ what white men and women do to the families of those heathen savages!" McCoy countered, a little too loudly for present circumstances.

"Doc. Keep your voice down. We don't want to – " The blond swallowed hard. "Looks like it might be too late…."

McCoy spun back toward the scene unfolding below them. They were on the top of the ridge, above and to the right hand side of the natural stage. The native made a proclamation, saying there were spies among them. To McCoy's horror, the man raised a hand and pointed, sending the mass of over one hundred angry and agitated Native Americans –

In the opposite direction from them.

Yadkin pushed his hat back on his head and let out a whistle of relief. "Now don't that beat all! How do you figure that?"

McCoy was afraid he didn't want to. Something, he didn't know what – call it instinct or a divine voice within – told him one of his friends was at the end of that tanned finger and that, whoever it was, they were in serious trouble.

"Can we get around there? Without going through the hollow?" the surgeon asked as sweat broke out on his brow and upper lip.

"You gonna get sick, Doc?"

McCoy brushed it away. "It's nerves, damn it! I think one of my friends is in trouble."

Yadkin glanced back to the scene below. The shouting, swirling mob was spilling out of the natural grassy bowl as if someone had tipped it. "You think your friend is the one that crazy Injun's talking about?"

McCoy swallowed over his fear. "Yes."

The blond man eyed the explosive situation one more time. "Safer on this side," he said at last.

The surgeon turned to him. "What if it was one of your friends? What if it _is?_ Spock was with Daniel Boone remember? Damn it, man! They could be together! We have to do something!"

The ten seconds it took Yadkin to puzzle it out were nine seconds too many for McCoy. He muttered a curse under his breath and then turned, intending to blaze a new trail through the Kentucky wilderness if he had to in order to get on the other side of the bowl. As he rose up, intending to desert their hiding place, Carolina Yadkin caught him by the arm.

"You're plum loco, Doc," the frontiersman said with a shake of his head. "And if that ain't bad enough, you're goin' the _wrong_ way. Follow me."

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Kirk's heart was pounding ferociously in his chest, not out of fear but from sheer physical exertion. He and Daniel Boone were flying through the thick trees and underbrush with little caution, running as fast as they could. So far they had outdistanced their enemies far enough that the arrows and musket balls fired at them fell short of their mark. But they both were tiring. The last time he had looked back, a bullet had struck a tree less than three meters behind them sending bark and bugs scattering. If they didn't shake their pursuers soon, or find some vantage point where they could mount a counterattack, they were dead men. Kirk knew all too well how deadly such primitive firearms and their projectiles could be. He had almost lost Spock to one when the Vulcan had taken a musket ball in the back on the planet Neural the year before.

"You…know the…land," Kirk shouted as they ran forward. "Any place where we can defend ourselves?"

Daniel Boone was leaping over a fallen log. One hand was on his coonskin cap and the other tightly gripped his rifle. "There's a craggy…shelf up ahead, part…of the ridge behind us…'bout five minutes from here. If we can…reach it, I can fire back…on them."

"Five…minutes?" Kirk glanced back. He could see the natives now, flowing like river water through the trees. The moonlight struck the barrels of their raised rifles. He knew it was exaggerated, but it looked like they held a thousand guns – _all_ pointed at him.

"They seem mighty angry," the frontiersman remarked with a lopsided grin. "Don't think they cotton to us much."

That was a bit of an understatement. Kirk opened his mouth to reply, but closed it quickly as a musket ball whizzed past his ear. Speech was useless at this point. What they needed were faster feet.

"Punch it up!" the starship captain commanded as he reached inside himself for some unused reserve of strength. Boone nodded and the two of them began a last desperate sprint to reach the crag. He could see it rising before them, not too far off. Unfortunately the lessening of the distance between them and it was directly proportionate to the increase of the missiles flying about them. He heard Boone grunt as an arrow struck a glancing blow on his shoulder. A second later a hot lead ball cut a crease in Kirk's calf. He ignored the injury as surely as the frontiersman. With blood dripping, Kirk pressed forward toward the rocky haven that beckoned like a siren's song. They were within shouting distance when he heard a sharp report from a rifle and an answering grunt from his companion. Turning to look, Kirk was horrified to see a crimson stain spreading across Daniel Boone's chest.

"No!" he cried as he turned back to catch the big man before he fell. Boone was breathing hard. "Can you climb?"

The frontiersman nodded. Kirk moved to support him with his shoulder, and then helped him to mount the rocky stair as more musket balls and arrows struck the unyielding boulders surrounding them. Several seconds later he understood why Daniel Boone had brought them to this place. There was a twist in the path, another turn, and then it opened onto a shelf big enough for a man to stretch out, with full command of the land below. He helped the frontiersman to sit and then snatched the rifle from his hands.

Daniel Boone caught his wrist. "She's a good one, Ticklicker," he remarked shakily. The big man's face was chalk-white and he was breathing hard. "Take care of her and she'll always shoot straight."

Not exactly certain what the frontiersman was talking about, Kirk grabbed his companion's powder bag and began to load the rifle. It would only be seconds before the first of the natives reached them, and while he was trained in the use of ancient weapons, he was only one man.

And there were over a hundred Shawnee.

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

"Good Lord!" McCoy cried as he and Yadkin came clear of a thick stand of trees. They had followed the rocky ridge around to the left, traveling above the heads of the Shawnee and the men the natives chased. He had not been able to get a good look at the fleeing pair, but he didn't think either of them was Spock. One was a brown blur. The other seemed to be wearing a gold shirt and dark pants. They were running for their lives, weaving this way and that, ducking and rolling when they could. He had watched them, hoping to divine something, until the trees interfered. It was only now as they emerged and were able to look down on the place where the two men had chosen to make their stand, that he realized just _who_ it was the Shawnee were trying to kill.

"How the hell did Jim Kirk get here?" he growled out loud.

"You know the man with Dan'l?" Yadkin replied, his concern for his friend open and unmasked.

McCoy nodded. Yes, he knew him. As the surgeon watched, Jim raised one of the antique weapons so prevalent in this aggressive society and fired. A native dropped in his tracks. Not quite half a minute later, a second followed. But the Shawnee were ants swarming a hill. There was no way Jim could win.

He was going to die.

Yadkin hesitated though his rifle was loaded. "If I fire, they'll come after us as well."

McCoy nodded. At least it would divide their forces. "Do it!"

The blond man winked and then took aim. Another native fell with a scream. For a moment the dying man's companions were confused. Then, as one, about a dozen turned and looked up at the ridge.

"That's done it," Yadkin said with an ornery grin. "You got any weapons in that there bag of yours, Doc? If not, I don't think we'll live long enough to need any of your medicine."

Bones froze. He blinked. How stupid was he?

He had a phaser.

Opening the bag, McCoy began to rummage in it even as Jim and Yadkin's rifles sounded. His hands were shaking so hard it took precious seconds more than he had, but he finally found it. Relieved, he palmed the energy weapon, managing to resist the urge to lift the small boxlike hand-phaser to his lips and kiss it. Then he had a disagreeable thought.

The Prime Directive.

What should he do? This was a primitive society centuries away from the first laser. Federation regulations forbid the use of the phaser in such cases. But if he didn't use it Jim Kirk would die, to say nothing of Daniel Boone who had many years yet to live and many things to accomplish. Could he let the trailblazer die?

Wouldn't _that_ change history?

McCoy thought furiously. The time travelers arrival on Earth had disturbed the planet's natural progression. It was no longer an untouched culture. It seemed to him, in the long run, that preserving the lives of Daniel Boone and his captain far outweighed any risks one phaser blast might entail.

And if the Starfleet brass wanted to court-martial him, then so be it!

McCoy glanced at his companion. Yadkin had just fired a shot. He was searching in his powder bag for supplies to reload. The blond man was awfully close. _Too_ close. He would see the phaser and recognize that it was something that did not belong in eighteenth century Kentucky. Wincing with the decision, McCoy picked up a rock and tested it for weight. Then, without hesitation, he brought it down on Yadkin's head. As his companion dropped to the ground, the surgeon peered over the edge of the gray boulder the frontiersman had been using to balance his rifle. The Shawnee were almost on Jim. He didn't see Boone anywhere. He could only hope he was close to Kirk and out of harm's way.

Trying to make the action at least _appear_ to be some natural phenomenon, McCoy took aim at an outcropping of rock just to the left and below his friend and fired. The phaser's light lashed out, struck the rock and caused it to explode, casting a cascade of heavyweight missiles at the men attempting to scale the crag. The surgeon held his breath as the Shawnee reacted, praying to every Deity he knew of – including Vulcan's – that he would not have to fire again. The natives stood their ground, not advancing, but not retreating either. McCoy gnawed his lip. While he waited to see what happened, he found himself imagining Jim Kirk's scowl of disapproval, and Spock's chastising stare. Well, hell! They weren't here to advise him, now were they? McCoy still had his finger on the phaser's trigger. If he had to fire again, he would. The surgeon let out a heartfelt sigh of relief a moment later as the Shawnee backed down and started to retreat.

A noise drew his attention. Beside him, Carolina Yadkin was stirring. McCoy hid the phaser in his waistcoat pocket and then offered him a hand up.

"What happened?" the blond man asked as he put a hand to his head. It was bleeding. "Dang!"

"A stray rock. Someone down there must have a powerful right arm," McCoy lied. He took the blond man by the arm. "Can you travel? We need to get to them! One or both may be hurt."

Yadkin nodded and though he was pale as paste, started to move. "Follow me, Doc. This way!"

It took them about three minutes to reach the rocky shelf. McCoy was sorry to find he had been right. One of their friends _was_ hurt.

In fact, Daniel Boone was dying.


	17. Chapter 17

Chapter Seventeen

Spock moved like a caged panther – albeit a wounded one – as he explored the confines of the cave he had been placed within. After a long exhausting walk through the forest he had been thrust into the shallow cavern, barred from leaving by a loose construction of branches and hide strips serving as a door, and then left alone; his guard taking up a post some ten feet away around an outcropping of rock. The dawning light cast Levar's shadow across the cave's threshold, so he knew D'Ayron's man was still there. The Vulcan could have, under normal circumstances, simple torn down the door. Weak as he was, the odds were favorable that he still could. But Levar was armed with an energy weapon and logic dictated that the attempt would have little or no chance of success due to his current physical limitations. Immediately after being incarcerated, he had been forced to inaction as a result of a series of uncontrollable tremors. The cumulative toll of his injuries was one he could no longer deny. The fever, indicative of the rampant infection held at bay by sheer willpower for some days now, was steadily rising. At the current rate, he calculated he had no more than three or four hours before becoming incapacitated.

Several more, and the odds increased exponentially that he would be dead.

As before, death did not frighten him. In a way, it piqued his curiosity. It would prove most fascinating to die, especially if one could return and therefore analyze the experience. Spock quickly suppressed the thought as idle. He was deteriorating rapidly indeed if he was suddenly given over to fanciful notions.

In order to rest he had entered a light trance and for some time lain on the cold stone floor unmoving. The period of semi-stasis somewhat restored his flagging energies; at least enough so that he could go on. He had used the brief time he was immobile to cogitate upon current events. It was most disconcerting. One did not often meet one's progeny – no matter how many centuries removed – fully grown. He thought again of the striking Romulan women D'Ayron had shown him. She had matched him strength for strength and, in a way, weakness for weakness. He had no desire to seek a mate. His experience with the koon-ut-kal-if-fee had mitigated that need, he hoped _forever._ Still, he could understand what his older self had seen in the Romulan commander – a proud bearing and nobility, a keen intellect mixed with wit, not to mention the added inducement of encountering – if not embracing – something of Vulcan's ancient emotionally driven past. He wondered, with the foreknowledge he had, when he met Dyan at last would he deny his _feelings_ and choose to do what was logical?

Or was that what his future self _had_ done?

Beyond the intriguing problem of the Romulan Commander, lay others that he had also bent his mind to. D'Ayron was the greatest among them. The Romulan had not been entirely honest with him – nor with himself. D'Ayron's elemental task, given to him by the Initiators, was to eliminate those on the Enterprise who had intimate knowledge of the mechanics of time travel. That meant the bridge crew. Spock paused in his pacing. He pursed his lips at the thought of the threat to the dedicated men and women who had become so much a part of his life. Had any of them died due to his selfish choice? Due to a…momentary indiscretion? Did McCoy survive? And what of Jim? After all it was he, along with Engineer Scott, who was responsible for discovering and refining the formula that created the matter and antimatter mix that had saved the Enterprise from destruction as it spiraled down toward Psi-2000. It was _his_ actions that had propelled them three days into the past. He was the originator, or rather, the guilty party.

And yet, here he was _alive_.

It was clear from their earlier contact that D'Ayron's loyalties were divided. While the Romulan had gone about his assigned task, he had also been actively pursuing his own agenda that was diametrically opposed to the Initiators'. The actions he intended to take this night involving the Shawnee were the current manifestation of it. D'Ayron's scheme was to alter the past in favor of North America's indigenous population, creating – ultimately – a confederation of more aggressive states. In this way he hoped to change the very nature of the United Federation of Planets from a peacekeeping, into an empirical force. And why? Not to further the agenda of the Romulan Empire or to gain personal power and status. Simply put, it was to assuage D'Ayron's own rather emotional feelings of unworthiness. Spock's left eyebrow peaked.

The fault must _certainly_ lay on his mother's side.

The Vulcan observed his prison door, noting both the position of the rising sun and the guard. He felt, if the opportunity arose and he could talk to D'Ayron, that it might be possible to persuade him to relent. While self-revelation was something Spock regarded with distaste and avoided as surely as he did Doctor McCoy's dubious ministrations, in this case sharing how he…felt…as he matured might well prove beneficial. Walking in two – or three – worlds was not an easy task, but there were benefits as well as detriments. To sum it up in human terms, it was best phrased by the German philosopher Friedrich Nietzsche. 'That which does not kill us makes us stronger.'

If there was anything of him in D'Ayron after two centuries, anything of the _Vulcan_ in the young Romulan's veins, then he might be able to convince him.

Spock walked to the branch and thong door. He gazed out of it, noting Levar's exact location. Crossing to the cave wall directly behind his prison guard, he prepared himself by opening and closing his hands several times. Then he shut his eyes in concentration. After a moment, he opened them again and leaned in toward the wall. For several minutes the Vulcan probed it, reaching out with his mind. As he felt the first faint stirrings of the other man's intelligence, Spock began to project the image that he had escaped, that the cave was empty, that Levar _must_ open the door and step in to check. The effort made the Vulcan tremble. A cold sweat broke out on his fevered skin. It did not stop him. Even as his knees threatened to buckle, Spock continued to broadcast the image that he was no longer there. Finally, he felt the man outside stir, shift, and turn to check.

Once free he would go to D'Ayron and speak to him. He would, if he could, put a stop to the young man's madness. Or if he could not – then the odds were less than favorable that both he and the Romulan would emerge from the meeting alive.

Mingo shook his head as he watched the curious weapon Nyota held emit a thin beam of fire and melt through the chains binding Umbele's feet, finishing the job she had started with the young woman's wrists. The former slave grinned as the smoldering links of iron fell to the ground. Uhura apologized for leaving the rough iron cuffs. She had been afraid to bring the beam of fire too close to the other woman's skin. Umbele didn't care. Thanking her profusely, she darted forward to embrace the one who had given her freedom. Uhura graciously accepted her gratitude. She didn't say it was nothing, because it _was_ something.

Umbele was free.

"Now what?" Nyota asked as she returned the weapon to her pouch and turned toward him.

" _I_ must go," Mingo said, his voice sober. "The Shawnee are on the warpath and headed for Boonesborough. I must warn my friends, and then do what I can to aid them."

" _You_ must go?" she countered. "Not without us, mister."

"I cannot ask you to put yourselves in such terrible danger – "

"Who's asking you to _ask? I_ , at least, am volunteering," Uhura snapped back. Turning, she asked Umbele, "What about you?"

"I am no child to be left behind," the young woman stated emphatically.

Uhura turned back. "Well, that's it then."

"What about your missing friend?" Mingo asked softly, reminding her that she had other commitments. "Boonesborough is _my_ responsibility, not yours."

A flicker of indecision clouded her dark eyes, but she extinguished it quickly. "We've lost the trail. I don't know how to get back to where I was, and _you_ aren't going to take me. Besides…." Her tone was softened by affection. "If I know Mr. Spock, he'll end up where the action is."

"Or be the cause of it?" the Cherokee warrior asked with a smile.

She beamed in return. "Most likely."

Mingo looked at the pair of them. This one, Nyota, was a war woman. He could see it in her stance, and in the determination that shone out of her eyes. As such, she was not to be denied. Umbele he was not so certain of. Still, there really _was_ no choice – the young woman could not be left alone in the forest, not with the slavers searching for her.

"War is no place for a woman," he said, trying one last time.

"What _is_ our place? To sit and wait for our friends or lovers or sons to be brought home on their shields?" There was fire in Uhura's voice. "Give me a pistol or a bow and I will defend what needs to be defended."

"And you, Umbele," he asked. "Will you fight?"

Umbele glanced at the other woman and then back at him. "Find me a spear and I will _show_ you what I can do."

Their firmness sobered _and_ shamed him. "I am honored," he said at last, "to walk with two such warriors."

Uhura planted her hands on her hips. "That's better," she answered with mock severity. "Now, I take it you have some sort of a plan?"

Mingo grinned. "Daniel is the one who usually devises the _plan_. I prefer to follow."

"But I bet, like Mr. Spock, you can come up with some good ones of your own – if forced."

"Or coerced," he laughed. "I _have_ extricated Daniel from a sticky situation or two."

Uhura laid a hand on his arm. "Let's make it three. Let's go save Boonesborough."

The Cherokee warrior covered her hand with his. "What about your fire weapon? Can you use it? Such a thing would terrify our enemy."

He felt her stiffen. "I can't," she answered. "I shouldn't have used it at all. I just couldn't see any other way." Uhura turned and smiled at Umbele. The other woman had moved away to gather up their things. "I couldn't leave her behind. For some reason I think she's special."

Mingo squeezed her fingers. "You are _both_ special."

"Why Mr. Mingo, you're making me blush." Uhura's smile was winsome.

He leaned in close and spoke softly. "It is quite becoming on you, Miss Uhura."

She gazed at him for a moment and then laughed. "Boy, do we need you on the Enterprise. You'd make those women stop panting after Mr. Spock."

Mingo's left eyebrow shot up. "Spock, a lady's man?"

Uhura crooked her little finger and then whispered close to his ear. "If you don't tell him, neither will I."

The Cherokee warrior laughed.

Umbele, who had just returned to their side, looked at the two of them puzzled. "Did I miss something?" she asked.

Uhura pulled her hand away and shook her head. She was still looking at him. "They sure _don't_ make them like they used to," she sighed.

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Spock clung to the cave wall as Levar's shadow slipped between the branches and vines and advanced across the threshold. His jailer approached slowly, as if unsure of what drew him forward. During the mind probe Spock had found certainty of what he had earlier surmised – Levar was a Romulan, surgically altered to appear as a human. Most likely so he could move with ease among the townspeople. As such, Levar's mind – while not subtle – was strong. The suggestion Spock had planted would be no more than that to him: a suggestion. The Romulan was not fooled, he simply was not certain.

It was difficult to remain completely still. Sweat streamed into Spock's eyes and he trembled with the effort. His left leg was gripped by a spasm, making it hard to keep his feet. Still, he _dare_ not move. He dare not reveal his presence – not until Levar had opened the door and stepped inside.

Which he did a moment later.

Spock held his breath and waited as the altered Romulan moved into the cave. Steeling himself, he prepared to strike. He knew the alien's strength would _more_ than match his own and he would only get one chance. Levar had reached the rudimentary bedding they had provided for him, which he had bunched up and padded as best he could to mimic his shape before attempting an escape. From his vantage point, it made a passable imitation of a sleeping body. Spock watched as Levar hesitated, and then bent to shake the bedding's 'shoulder'.

Springing pantherlike, Spock struck him when he was off-balance. Desperately, the Vulcan drove his trembling fingers into the Romulan's shoulder. He was not certain the nerve pinch would work, but calculated it was likely to at least slow his jailer down. Levar did not lose consciousness, but he collapsed to the floor and the energy weapon he carried dropped from his hand. Spock made a grab for it, but the Romulan managed a weak strike with his boot and sent it skittering across the cave floor. Instinctively Spock rolled and went after it, coming to his feet some three yards away with the weapon in his hand. He pointed it at the Romulan, but did not fire. Levar's eyes were glazed. He looked at the Vulcan without comprehension, and then pitched over and lay still. Spock stared at him for a moment, then he set the phaser to heavy stun and shot him anyway.

Logic dictated he take no chances.

Crippled by the spasm that still gripped his leg, Spock limped past the Romulan's unconscious form and headed for the entrance of the cave. As he reached it, he paused with a hand to the rocky wall, seeking to clear his head.

Then he stumbled into the growing light.

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

The trip to Boonesborough had taken an unexpected turn. They had traveled less than an hour when, suddenly, the forest came alive with heavily painted natives – all running as if the devil himself were on their tail. Uhura crouched in the tall grasses with her companions, watching as the Shawnee warriors they had seen earlier – marching like the Hun's imperious army to the Battle of Chalons – fled from some unseen enemy. She couldn't imagine what had happened. The warriors were scattered, moving haphazardly – some stumbling and falling, others actually crying.

Their faces told a tale of terror.

"What do you suppose happened?" she asked Mingo, her tone hushed. When he did not answer, she looked at him and was surprised to find something of the same look of terror in his eyes. "Mingo, what is it?"

He seemed to rouse himself from wherever his thoughts had taken him. "For such men – such _warriors_ – to fly like frightened girls, it must be terrible indeed. Perhaps something of _another_ world."

There were two sides to this man, Uhura told herself, just like there were to Spock. But while Spock embraced his father's race, adopting the Vulcans' cold logic and code of non-emotion, Mingo chose to emulate his mother's. In doing so, the Cherokee warrior embraced feelings and superstition. She laid a hand on his arm. " _I'm_ of another world. Am I so frightening?"

He smiled. "No."

Uhura stared at him for a moment, and then forcefully turned her attention to the Shawnee warriors who were fleeing through the forest. "What we need is information," she said, rising.

"What are you going to do?" Umbele asked wide-eyed.

The woman from the stars flashed a twinkling smile. "Watch," she said as she stepped out of the cover of the leaves.

One Shawnee ran past her, heedless of her existence. Then another. The third, as he approached, saw her standing there and slowed down. Uhura continued to smile as the native took in her sex, her shapely form, and her unusual garb. When he drew to a halt, she beckoned him forward by crooking one finger. The man hesitated, gazed back at some of his fellows, and then turned back to look at her.

Uhura's boot caught him in the chest as he did, and then she moved in and delivered an upper cut to his chin. A second later, the Shawnee dropped to the ground.

Her voice pitched low, the Bantu woman turned back to her cloistered companions and ordered, "Help me get him under cover!"

Minutes later the unfortunate Shawnee awoke tied to a tree, with the three of them staring down at him. He let loose a long string of consonants that Uhura supposed were meant to invoke the gods against them, and then fell silent. She stepped back and gave way to Mingo who knelt and began speaking to the man. Uhura listened as they fell into conversation, fascinating by the syntax and structure of what she recognized as an offshoot of the Algonquin tongue. Though she knew several Native American languages, Shawnee was not one of them. She could admire it, but understanding it was a _whole_ different thing.

A few minutes later Mingo rose to his feet and approached her where she stood speaking to Umbele. "Apparently the war is off," he said with some relief.

"Off?"

"Rain of Stars, that's the current Shawnee war chief, addressed the men tonight in preparation for sending them into battle. During his speech, he seemed to somehow glean that there were spies listening. He sent the warriors out to find them."

"Spies?" she asked, somewhat anxious. "What kind of spies?"

"Two men. The Shawnee gave chase." Mingo paused. It almost seemed as if he did not want to continue – as if he was _afraid_ to say what he had to say. "From this man's description, I think one may have been Daniel Boone."

She understood the fear now. She felt it for _her_ friend as well. "Was the other Spock?"

"No. Blackknife said the second man was white, with hair like honey."

"What happened to them? Were they hurt?"

"That is unclear. Blackknife claims the men were wounded and that one took…a killing blow." He raised a hand to silence her. "We cannot be sure. If he is without honor, he would not choose to admit defeat."

Uhura's heart was pounding, hard. Now she wasafraid and she didn't know why. "What did they do with the men? Where are they now?"

"The Shawnee chased them to a place not far from here, a rocky ledge overlooking a shallow grassy bowl. They trapped them there. Two men, with only one rifle in hand to fend off over a hundred enemies."

"Then they are dead," Umbele pronounced matter-of-factly.

Mingo shook his head. "They should be. But they are not."

"You mean the Shawnee didn't pursue them once they were wounded? Why? And why were these men running away? Surely not from one white man with a gun." Uhura held the Cherokee warrior's gaze. Something remained, something yet unspoken. "Mingo, tell me."

He turned from her and lifted his handsome face to the sky. The moonlight streamed down, turning his black hair to midnight blue. When Mingo spoke, awe resonated in the depths of his silken voice. "Blackknife spoke of the Thunderbirds, but I do not think it is the Thunderbirds he saw." He looked straight at her. "The Shawnee says that a light came out of the sky – a crimson light thin as a taper, but with the power of the Thunderbirds' gaze. It struck the ridge above them and the rocks exploded. Several warriors were killed. Blackknife believes the men died because their act this night offended the gods."

If she could have paled, Uhura would have. "Someone fired a phaser?" she gasped. "But that's _impossible_."

"A phaser?"

"My…my fire weapon," she explained.

"Then, it would seem it is not impossible."

"But who?" It couldn't be Spock, she reasoned. The Vulcan didn't have his weapon on him. But who else in this time period could be carrying a Starfleet issued weapon? Then a thought struck her. Had the ship made its way into the past and located them? Had a landing party beamed down? If so, then rescue might be close at hand. "Mingo," she said at last, "we have to go there. To the ridge. _Now._ "

The Cherokee warrior met her intense gaze; his own uncertain. "I know the place. It is not far from the settlement. But I do not think – "

"These could be my _people_ ," she told him. "If so they can locate…. They can help me find Mr. Spock. And if Dr. McCoy is with them, then he can give him the medical treatment he needs."

"Uhura, there will be many Shawnee between here and there," Mingo countered. "Some of them are not frightened. Some are rightfully _angry_. Blackknife says they seek the one who brought this upon them, as well as the shaman who aids him. The warriors believe both are false."

"Who brought it upon them? Do you know him?"

" _Of_ him," Mingo replied. "He is called Rain of Stars."

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Spock followed a thin lead that had no logic to it. Upon finding himself free, he had moved off into the forest. He had been uncertain how long the Romulan would remain unconscious, and it had seemed prudent to put some distance between himself and his jailer. For some time he traveled without purpose. Logic eluded him. He could not, as humans put it, _think_ straight. After approximately thirty minutes, he gave up. Dropping to the ground, he positioned himself as he had been taught and focused, calling on the rudimentary disciplines he had learned as a child. Instead of success, he found his efforts ineffectual and himself, frustrated. Ashamed, he was forced to admit that he was simply too exhausted to identify, seize, and defeat whatever obstacle lay between him and rational thought.

And then he _felt_ it – a connection, tenuous at first, but growing stronger as he reached out to embrace it.

A connection to D'Ayron.

They had linked minds before so it was not totally unexpected, but usually no such resonance remained unless it was desired. Such things _had_ been known to occur between close associates and family members. There had been links that reached through space – if not time. Spock inhaled and let the breath out slowly, centering. Yes, it was there. Clear. Precise. Almost, intimate. If nothing else, the nature of the connection went far to prove the Romulan's claim that they were indeed related.

Not as if he doubted it. Within the link there was no dissembling.

Satisfied that it was necessary, Spock hearkened to the call of the one who was beget of his future self. Through the link he became aware of what had transpired, if not in detail then in abstract form. D'Ayron's scheme had failed. Something or someone had interfered, causing his men to lose faith. He was blamed for what had happened. The young Romulan commander was alone and vulnerable. It would be the optimum time to confront him – if only Spock could get to him quickly, before someone else did. The Vulcan sensed his descendant's fear.

The hunter had become the hunted.


	18. Chapter 18

Chapter Eighteen

Jim Kirk was not a man to panic, but he was coming close – very, _very_ close.

Preventing intergalactic wars, facing down Klingons, bantering with boy gods and going nose to nose with Romulans… Those were nothing more than a walk in the hydroponic garden. What really scared him – about the only thing that could _terrify_ him – was the prospect of fiddling with time. He had seen what could happen with his own eyes.

Lowering those eyes, the starship captain stared at the chalk white, bloodstained body of his companion. Kirk's hands were crimson as a security guard's uniform shirt. In fact, he was in it up to his elbows. He calmed himself by reading the mental note posted at the door of his panic sector that told him a man could bleed inordinately and still come out alive. He'd seen that _too_ in nearly 15 years of military service, but he sensed this was different. Daniel Boone didn't have much time.

Time.

If Boone died, what would it do to time? To _his_ time?

This was what the willowy woman who appeared in Spock's quarters had been talking about. This was what she had come here to prevent. Shifting his hands, Kirk applied more pressure to the frontiersman's wound in a vain attempt to staunch the bleeding. Boone had taken a ball midway up the left hand side, near the center of his chest but not _at_ the center. The fact that he was still breathing – even if those breaths were ragged and uneven and increasingly painful to listen to – meant his heart had not been struck. But it looked close. _Too_ close.

If only Bones were here, he thought. At least the frontiersman might stand a –

A trickle of pebbles alerted him to the fact that someone was coming. Then, there was a voice.

"Jim! Good God! What happened?"

Kirk blinked. He was hallucinating. Right? "B…Bones?"

"Well, who do you think it is? Doc Holliday?" McCoy slid down to his side and settled by the wounded man. He applied his experienced eye to the situation and nodded. "Keep applying that pressure, but move aside enough for me to get close. Let's see if there is anything I can do."

Swiftly and efficiently, the surgeon moved in; his trained fingers probing the area of the wound. As they did, he made observations, noting Boone's color and respiration. And then – God _bless_ him – Bones reached into the black leather bag he carried and pulled out a 23rd century medical scanner. The whir of its modern motor was a balm to the tension gripping Jim Kirk's muscles.

"I see you came prepared," he muttered, wondering if McCoy sensed a hint of disapproval in his tone. He didn't want it to be there, but his brain was screaming _PRIME DIRECTIVE_!

McCoy didn't miss it. His ice-blue eyes flicked to his captain's face. "Jim, I can explain…."

Kirk waved it off. "Later. Can you save him?"

The instrument was still whirring. "Help me get a pressure patch on the wound, and then give me a minute and I'll let you know."

"Bones!" he insisted, as if insisting could change something. "If this man dies…"

"I can only do so much without the ship, Jim," the surgeon apologized.

Kirk heard it in Bone's voice, the agony of every creature that had ever dared to call itself a healer since the first one had crawled out of the primordial soup and sought to ease the pain of another. After the bandage was in place Kirk stood. A second later, his hand came down on his friend's shoulder. "I know, Bones. Do what you can." Then he added with a wry smile. "Just try to remember that the entire human race is counting on you."

Leonard McCoy shot him one of those looks that belied the fact that the surgeon was opposed to taking a life.

Kirk held his hands up in surrender and then turned away to do the only thing the captain of a galaxy size starship could do at this moment – which was wait. As he did, he realized that Bones had not come alone. A blond man in a fringed coat was parked on the edge of the ledge, peering down over it, rifle in hand. Every so often his eyes would flick to where McCoy was working. Kirk knew the look. He had seen it often enough in McCoy's eyes, in Spock's – and in his own. It was the look of a man who did not know if today would be the day he would be called upon to bury a brother.

Kirk limped forward, favoring the leg the ball had struck, more tired than he realized and dropped to the ground beside the other man. Without a word, the blond handed a rifle to him. The starship captain noted that it was not Daniel Boone's rifle. _That_ tangible connection to his dying brother the frontiersman held in his own hands. Kirk accepted the weapon and turned his attention to defense.

"Situation," he barked. And then thought better of it.

The blond man glanced at him, but didn't seem offended. He was about Kirk's age – somewhere in his thirties – and bronzed as the buckskins he wore. Premature wrinkles, part worry, mostly sun, furrowed the brow above his pale blue eyes. "Seen one or two of them heathen savages dartin' in and out of the trees. But it don't look like they're interested in us no more. They seem to be lookin' for somethin' – or someone else."

Kirk turned his gaze to the wooded area before them, and then looked up at the ridge. The morning sun was breaking over it. It cast a fiery light that reminded him, uncomfortably, of his missing Vulcan friend. All too soon he might be sharing the frontiersman's pain. In this primitive culture, with its many prejudices, how would an _alien_ survive? That was, _if_ Spock had survived whatever had happened to the _Columbus._

The man beside him shifted and held out a dirt-caked hand. "Name's Yadkin," he said by way of introduction.

Forced out of his melancholy thoughts, Kirk responded by taking it and shaking it firmly. "Captain James T. Kirk, United…States military."

"Thought so." Yadkin looked him up and down, seeming to approve what he saw. He winced when his eyes came to the blood that saturated Kirk's gold uniform shirt and coated his arms. "Dan'l?"

"He's in good hands. Dr. McCoy is one of the best." Kirk turned to see how Bones was doing. The surgeon stood and then glanced his way. His friend's face was a mask, saying nothing.

McCoy raised a hand and beckoned him over. "Jim, I'd like to talk to you."

Kirk touched Yadkin's shoulder briefly. "Keep watch. I'll let you know as soon as _I_ know."

The blond man didn't reply. He swallowed over emotion and nodded, and then turned back to his silent vigil, doing the only thing he could at the moment for his friend.

Kirk limped back. He was going to have to work on that. Any sign of weakness was not a sign he cared to give an enemy now. Eyeing the doctor's black leather bag, he wondered if there was anything in there for him.

Bones looked him over and gave his professional opinion. "You're a wreck."

"Thanks." Kirk's smile was grim. "You try a half-mile sprint on a game leg with a hundred angry natives on your tail and see how sweet you come out smelling."

"You should let me do something about that leg."

It was tempting. "Later," he said. Kirk's hazel eyes flicked to the quiescent form of the big man lying at the back of the ridge. "Boone?"

"He'll live. Or at least he will if infection doesn't set in. The ball missed the organ and most of the major arteries. The pressure pack is containing the bleeding, and I brought along stores of both human and Vulcan – well, _hybrid_ Vulcan blood."

Kirk's former anger flickered at the edge of his tightly drawn lips. "You certainly came well prepared."

The surgeon pursed his lips and assumed his usual chagrinned stance; arms behind back, long lean form rocking back and forth from heel to toe. "Jim, I can explain…." He paused and then the obligatory self-deprecating smile appeared. "Well, hell. No I can't."

"Bones! _What_ were you thinking?" The captain in him overcame the friend. "You left the ship without its chief surgeon, _during_ a red alert, without consulting its captain or obtaining leave to do so. We were in the middle of an emergency situation with intruders aboard and one of our shuttlecraft and its crew missing in action." The color of his hazel eyes darkened with his anger. "You want to tell me why, _mister?"_

"Well…she said…."

"She? Who's _she?_ "

"Willow. Well, that's what I call her." Bones' chagrin ripened into embarrassment. "You know how it is, Jim. It's hard for a southern gentleman to turn down a lady."

"Willow?" Kirk hesitated. The starship captain didn't know _how_ he did it – Spock had tried to analyze his leaps of illogical logic for years, but with little success. He had a suspicion it was one of the few times the Vulcan comprehended the human affliction of a headache. "The time traveler?"

McCoy looked as if he had taken a photon torpedo head on. "You know about her?"

"I met her. In Spock's quarters." Kirk watched as the psychologist in his doctor friend noted that. In Spock's quarters. No Spock there. He dismissed it with a shrug. "So you are saying she _recruited_ you?"

It was McCoy's turn. He shrugged, rolling his narrow shoulders. "You could say that."

"To do what?"

"To do this, Captain Kirk," a light voice remarked.

Kirk spun, stunned to find the alien they discussed was standing no more than three feet behind him. She must have just appeared, because McCoy looked just as shell shocked as he did. He glanced at Yadkin to gauge the frontiersman's reaction, but realized somehow that Willow's appearance was outside of the blond man's reality. Perhaps she was blocking it, or had somehow frozen Yadkin in time.

He certainly didn't like the can of Regillian slime worms _that_ opened up.

"I demand to know what is going on!" he all but shouted.

"Jim, I think I understand," Bones said. "Willow told me I was _necessary_ for the time stream's survival. That I was tied to it, and had to be here. Think, Jim!" His hand came down on Kirk's shoulder. McCoy was shaking. "Boone would be dead now if I hadn't arrived!"

Time stream. Time _travel._ It made Kirk's head hurt as much as his intuitive leaps did Spock's. Give him a phaser and an enemy to charge and he was there. But put him in the shadows, where things slipped and slid and seemed not to be, and he wanted his mommy.

Well, not really, but one of Bone's lethal alcoholic concoctions would have been _very_ welcome just about now.

"I appreciate that, Bones. But I don't appreciate my ship or my crew being used by _outside_ agents who refuse to identify themselves or their agenda."

Willow was as nonplussed as a sapling tree with wide gray eyes. "You are a child. Too immature to understand."

"Mind your blood pressure, Jim," McCoy muttered as Kirk felt the color rise in his cheeks.

Snapping back at the other man in his best military tone, the starship captain phrased his demand as a request. "Don't you have a patient you should be attending to, _doctor?_ "

Bones was startled. The he snapped – a salute – in return. "Aye, aye, sir." And with that the surgeon turned back to his work.

Demand continued to be the dress of the day. "What did you do to him?" Kirk asked Willow as he pointed at the blond frontiersman.

"He is held for the moment in the moment he occupied when I arrived."

"You can _do_ that?"

"There is little I cannot do," she said without ego.

"Then why do you need us?"

Willow's thin lips parted in a sigh. "There is only so much I am _permitted_ to do."

Did this race have its own sort of skewed Prime Directive? "You mean, _you_ can't interfere – much?"

"Mortal agents are used. Our part is to…direct."

"Mortal?" Visions of the self-proclaimed god Apollo towering over him like a twenty story building not all that long ago filled Kirk's mind's eye. "Are you… _immortal_ then?"

"We exist outside of time. It is not the same, but as far as your childish understanding, the description is adequate."

Kirk's head was spinning. He wanted to raise his hands and make sure it wouldn't fly away, but he resisted the urge. They had met such beings before – the Squire of Gothos, Trelayne, being one – beings who saw them with all their marvelous, scientific accomplishments as infants barely toilet trained.

They were _not_ easy to deal with.

Kirk drew a deep breath. He missed Spock more than ever. Willow would have presented an interesting puzzle to his first officer, but her goading would have fallen flat on his pointed ears. What _would_ Spock do in this situation? He would gather all of the information he had and then use it to draw a conclusion – even if that conclusion grew from nothing more than sheer human cussedness and speculation.

Not that the Vulcan would ever admit it.

Willow _had_ helped them. She had preserved Daniel Boone's life – and their future – by bringing 23rd century medicine to an 18th century world. And in doing so, she had apparently also helped them to stop a war. The Shawnee were scattered. Their purpose changed. There would be no red revolution to over take the white civilization. Not even a pink one. The Federation was safe. For the moment. Kirk's hazel eyes flicked to the alien woman. She stood there, uncaring as a bank of computers that held everything he needed to know, but refused to answer – unless he asked the right question.

Or was the Federation safe? What was to stop whoever had made this attempt at altering the past from going back again? And again? And….

This time he did press his fingers to his skull. _Hard._

"What is your ultimate aim?" Kirk asked her at last, hoping it was close to right.

"To end this war," she said simply.

" _Can_ you?"

For a moment Willow said nothing. The, unexpectedly, she smiled. The effect on her pallid face was that of the sun breaking out of the banks of a storm. "Yes."

"Jim."

McCoy was at his elbow. Kirk turned and almost knocked him down. "Bones, not now!"

"We need to get this man to wherever it is he lives. Lying out on the ground is not going to help his recovery."

"I thought he was okay…."

"He's stabilized. There's lots more I need to do." McCoy patted the bag he held. "I have blood for a transfusion in here, but since it is not an emergency, I prefer a more sterile environment." The doctor's eyes roamed the forest around them. "If there _is_ anything in this culture that even remotely compares to sterile," he groused.

Kirk remained immobile, command responsibilities running through his head like a barely-controlled herd of lematyas. Spock, Uhura, and Deevers were still missing and had to be presumed in need. His ship was up there somewhere – some _when_ – and his people were under attack. An alien race had invaded their space, bringing with it a war to end all wars; one in which each side altered time to its own liking. This race also recruited mortal or human agents who were even now at work on his homeworld; aliens who could, with one action, alter everything that was to come. He knew that the farther back in time the change was made, the less likely it was to have an effect. Still, one of those natives he shot could have been the father of Tecumseh or – who knew – the great-great-great grandfather of Geronimo. Every action was a tiny pebble tossed into a _huge_ pond.

And it was sink or swim.

Kirk drew a breath and fought to keep fear from making it stick in his throat. "Boone is safe. His settlement is safe. Bones has done what you sent him here to do. Why not send us back?"

"It is not over," she said.

He swallowed over the lump. "No?"

"McCoy's part is done. Yours is yet to come."

"I thought you didn't want Jim down here. You told me not to tell him!" McCoy protested.

Kirk sent his friend a shuddering warning that payment _would_ be demanded when they got back to the ship. _If_ they got back to the ship.

" _My_ part?"

"Find your friend," she said.

Kirk exchanged glances with McCoy. "My _friend?_ Who?" If his scowl had been any deeper, a battleship could have navigated it. Then he had it. "Spock? Then he's alive?"

Willow's willowy shape wrinkled. Kirk blinked, and in the split second it took she was nearly gone. He reached out to catch her, but grasped only thin air.

"Quite a lady," McCoy mused beside him, wearing his heels out again.

Like a phaser on delay, Kirk remained quiet for a moment and then exploded. "This is no time for you to be mooning over what you imagine to be a woman. Bones, if you weren't – "

"If you two are done jawin'," Yadkin's hoarse voice cut between them, "we ain't alone no more."

Both men jumped. With Willow's disappearance, _real_ time had been restored. It took Kirk a moment for the frontiersman's words to register, but only a second. Before McCoy could draw a breath to curse, he was on the move.

What he found when he knelt at the blond man's side was kismet.

Kirk beamed and opened his arms wide. "Uhura!"

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The news she brought was not entirely encouraging. Deevers was dead. Damn it. One of his men had died and he had not been there. It happened, but that didn't mean he had to like it. Spock was alive. Well, the last time Uhura saw the Vulcan he had been alive, but Spock had been in bad straights – wounded, weak from blood loss, and fevered – and for some reason known only to his keen logical mind, had _refused_ to go into the healing trance that could save his life. It had been more than a day since the lieutenant had seen the ship's first officer, and in the lush primitive wilderness they now occupied there was no one who could do anything to help the son of Vulcan whom he called 'friend' except his _other_ friend, who was kneeling about twenty feet away from him making sure history's Daniel Boone did not die. He and Uhura had been debating what to do but, in the end, he knew it was his call.

And of course, there were mitigating factors. There _always_ were.

This man, Tume, whom Uhura had spoken of troubled him. He had to be one of the mortal _agents_ Willow had mentioned. The lieutenant had seen the black man with a tricorder-style device in his hands. Tume knew about Vulcans and, for some reason, had it in for Spock. Uhura had seen him come and go at a pace that she thought impossible for the current century, suggesting that the time agents had some sort of transportation device. That might come in handy if they could find it. Traipsing around in a place where every new tree looked like the last tree as well as the tree that came _after_ it, was not his idea of a stroll on the beach. He had McCoy's compass, but had no idea of what direction to head. Uhura had drawn him a map showing the place where Spock had landed, as well as the site where the wrecked shuttle had beached. Both had little meaning without a greater context. _Where_ was Boonesborough? Where _was_ the Shawnee village?

Where the hell was Spock?

Kirk rose quickly to his feet. Uhura started to rise with him, but he ordered her to remain seated. The starship captain blinked unexpected and _unwelcome_ stars away from his eyes as he did, and then smiled sheepishly as his stomach growled. It had been a while since he had felt this lightheaded. Stress plus lack of food, Bones would have told him, made Jim Kirk an unhealthy boy.

Ignoring it, he looked into the trees as if challenging them to remain inscrutable. "So where is this native you said you were traveling with? Mango, was it?"

Uhura coughed. "Mingo. Sir. Cara-Mingo. He said he wanted to scout out the area and then he would join me – us." The Bantu woman's lovely face wore a frown as she turned it to the sky. "I didn't expect it to take this long."

It had been about two hours, during which time Bones had worked to stabilize Daniel Boone's condition enough that the frontiersman could be moved. The woman who had come with Uhura – Umbele, if he remembered right – had offered to help. It seemed she had some experience with healing. Above their heads the morning sun was working its way to noon. The day was a little chill, fifty degrees Fahrenheit or so, and there was a light breeze ruffling his blond hair like a lover.

Wherever he was, Spock must be freezing.

"Well, we can't wait too much longer." Kirk's hazel eyes narrowed. "You're sure you can trust him."

"Oh, yes, sir," she sighed. "There's _no_ doubt."

James T. Kirk had been in the motion of turning. Uhura's tone reached out like a hand and stopped him in mid-stride. Hadn't he and Bones been discussing the communications officer's immunity to Spock's charms when this all began?

This painted native must be _something._

"Well, that's good." He glanced at her again. "I suppose. Bones, you almost ready?" he called across the camp.

"Fifteen minutes, Jim. Sixteen if you have it."

Kirk scowled. "Make it twelve." He continued to stare at Uhura. She had that dreamy look that smacked thirteen year olds in the face when they thought they had found the man of their dreams. "I'd say 'at ease', Lieutenant," he said softly, "but I see you already are."

She started, and then snapped to attention. "Sir!"

He made a dismissive gesture with his hand. "I'm going to find something to eat. Give yourself a few minutes and then prepare to break camp."

Kirk caught the flintlock rifle Yadkin had handed him up from where he had propped it against a boulder, and then went to where the blond man was keeping watch. "Anything?" he asked.

"Dead man's watch," Yadkin replied with a shake of his head.

He touched his shoulder briefly. "Good."

"Where you going?"

"I'm hungry," Kirk grinned, and then added as it widened into a smile, "thought I'd wrestle us up some grub."

"You mean 'rustle'?"

Kirk's honey-colored brows did an impromptu dance. "What you said…."

As he walked through the trees streaked with dawning light, searching for something safe _and_ consumable, James T. Kirk of the United Starship Enterprise allowed himself a moment of enjoyment. Impossible as the area was from a tactical standpoint, the landscape about him was filled with majesty. Ancient trees rose like the masts of the tall ships of old, thrusting up like spears to stab a lapis lazuli sky. The ground beneath his feet was a rich soup of moss, leaves and bracken several feet deep. The air had a smell – hard to place – of freedom, he thought. No, more of a _promise_. Not that he was prejudiced, of course. This was _his_ world. This was the native land the Kirks had sprung from. This was – getting him nowhere. Kirk anchored his energy to the task at hand. He had places to go, people to save and – as if that wasn't enough – a planet's future hanging in the balance.

If he didn't get back soon, McCoy would be reading _him_ the riot act.

With a scowl on his face worthy of a Vulcan invited to a frat social, Kirk returned to his foraging. He hadn't gone far when he spotted something promising – a hint of color amidst all the green and brown. Kneeling, he pushed aside a few branches and reached for it.

"If you eat that," a cultured voice pronounced as a cold circle that felt remarkably like the blunt end of a rifle barrel was applied to his neck, "you will be dead even sooner than if you decide to move."


	19. Chapter 19

Chapter Nineteen

Time was out of joint and so was he.

D'Ayron knew he was trapped in a web partially of his own devising. He had left the device for calling the Initiators back in his camp, not daring to wear it as he led the Shawnee to battle. He had sent S'Tahl to locate it and return it to him. The teleportation device was also located near the camp and was currently inaccessible to him. Also, somewhere, there was Spock, and he would not leave his great-sire to the questionable mercies of this era. His intent in all of this had been to _preserve_ the Vulcan. In the end there would have been no starship, no peace-loving Starfleet for Spock to return to. D'Ayron had hoped – no dreamed, _envisioned_ – that the Vulcan would join him in the Empire. There was much good about the Praetor's state. If a more logical approach to rule could be suggested from within – a less heavy-handed one – then the Empire could become what it had been _intended_ to be, the flagship of the galaxy.

The Romulan sighed. _That_ dream had ended. He would have to find a new one.

D'Ayron moved through the forest quickly; quietly as a creature born to it. His journey was deliberate, though he had no notion of where he was going. There was something – a mental thread – that drew him forward, aiming him as surely as an arrow sent from the bow toward destiny. The resonance of the mindmeld with his Vulcan forebear was still with him. Though the link had been stolen – and not welcomed or given freely – much of what his great-sire knew had been transferred to him. Within D'Ayron's own conscience a voice had begun to shout days before, warning him that the Initiators were not to be trusted. There were games within games here – with him, his men, and the men and women of the Enterprise used as pawns. Now the Vulcan's steady, logical, and rational voice was added to his, leading to one final unanswerable question:

If those he served were all-powerful – what did the Initiators need with him?

The Romulan commander broke through a thick stand of man-high grasses and stopped. Physical exhaustion did not force him too. He was barely winded. But he needed to think. So many things – so many _thoughts_ assailed him. There had been a barricade in Spock's mind he had not been able to breach. It shielded memories of the Vulcan's youth and all that went before. But beyond that, there had been eighteen years of service in the Federation, and eleven of those by the side of a man named Kirk. When he closed his eyes, D'Ayron could see them together. There was a bond there that he envied. His men were loyal to him, they respected and _feared_ him for the punishment they knew he could inflict, but this was different. These _two_ were different _._ Fear did not enter into the equation. The quantifying factor was love.

And yet, _both_ were warriors. They walked among sheep, but they wore the pelt of the wolf under their soft uniforms. The Romulan had watched them with his mind's eye, fighting, killing, almost dying. From these visions he had gleaned a sense of _why._ They fought for their brother – for one another – but more than that, for what they _believed_ in; for the _Federation_ that he had sought to destroy. D'Ayron knew now that he had been wrong and he was glad his scheme had failed.

He only hoped he lived long enough to let his great-sire know.

He was a renegade now in more ways than one. The Shawnee had turned on him, but worse than that, his own men would report his actions to the Initiators. The one it would bring the greatest joy would be Tume. Most likely, the alien had already made them aware of the fact that he intended to spare Spock. Of all on board the Enterprise, according to the Initiators' will, the Vulcan was targeted to die. It was Spock who had engineered the Enterprise's initial trip into time, thereby awaking those who walked outside of it to the presence of those _within_ it who might one day strive to join them. When he had accepted this assignment, D'Ayron had _known_ it meant encountering the Enterprise, and from the beginning had known it meant as well that he must betray those who were his masters. He would do it for his _blood._ As commander, he had used the device that employed the thought energy of the Initiators to open the time tube that had caught the shuttlecraft _Columbus_ in its grip, bearing Spock to the past and him. He would not let them kill him.

Not then. _Not now._

D'Ayron stilled his mind and reached out, seeking the fine filament that bound them. His only training in the Vulcan disciplines of the mindmeld, link, and probe had been done surreptitiously, using the Empire's databases on the hated Federation and its allies' secret practices. But it was enough. A moment later he found the Vulcan. Probing deeper, he sought to _feel_ him as well. Success brought an unexpected emotion to the young Romulan: fear. Spock's breathing was labored. The staccato beat of his all too weary heart was _far_ too rapid. Something had changed.

The Vulcan was dying.

Rattled, D'Ayron came out of the renewed link only to find he was no longer alone. Tume, or Tor'mahg of the House of Torath as he was truly called, stood before him. The alien's black eyes bored into his soul even as the barrel of the ancient flintlock pistol Tor'magh held did the same thing to his chest.

"Now, Romulan," the altered Klingon sneered. "We do things _my_ way."

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

As a small boy Spock had grown very sick. In fact, he had almost died. The Vulcan healers had been at a loss as to what to do. Their medicine had proven triumphant in his conception and birth, but when it came to keeping their prize hybrid experiment _alive_ , all of the combined knowledge of the medical wing of the Vulcan Science Academy had proven far from adequate. His mother had been away at the time and he could still remember the stoic face of the Vulcan nursemaid he had, staring at him through the mesh of an oxygen tent, shaking her ancient head. His body, always too lean and long, had developed a series of two to four millimeter red papule with irregular outlines. A thin-walled clear vesicle appeared on each, which in turn broke, releasing a fluid that left a crust that itched like the bite of the Vulcan desert fly. He felt ill and was feverish. At first, it was thought he would survive the infection with little residual damage, but then infection set in and his temperature soared. Due to an inhalation of the droplets, the mucosae of his upper respiratory tract was affected. Viral proliferation occured in regional lymph nodes. A second round of viral replication occurred in his body's internal organs, most notably the liver and spleen. Soon, his small body was a mass of infection and it was logically accepted that the only son of Sarek would die. Then his mother came home.

He had the chickenpox.

Hard as he fought to deny it, he _was_ half-human. And it was that half that was killing him now. The interrupted trance had healed his physical wounds to the point where they were tolerable. He would still need Dr. McCoy's rather dubious ministrations to be completely rid of them, but he could function. He limped, but he could walk. His neck hurt, but it was no longer bleeding. And the burns from the flash of the shuttlecraft's immolation were not infected. But whatever bacteria had entered his bloodstream via the open wound in his leg was raging through his system like a fire kindled in a deciduous forest. And due to the loss of blood and the general weakening of his system, it was a conflagration that his Vulcan physiology could neither ignore nor restrain. At first he had thought it might be a simple staphylococcal infection. But during the course of the last several hours the muscle contractions he experienced had increased in both rapidity and strength, and the restless almost irritable feelings he had been suppressing had grown more intense. Logic dictated that, most likely, it was the bacterium _Clostridium tetani._ His mother had called it tetanus. She had spoken on it once when he had cut himself on an ancient piece of wire during a trip they had taken to earth, on a visit to her uncle's farm. The bacteria was found throughout the world in the soil and in animal and human intestines. 19th century earth would prove a most efficacious breeding ground.

His encyclopedic mind ran back through the medical texts he had scanned at the academy, seeking the progression of the illness. The tetanus neurotoxins caused the muscles to tighten in continuous contractions. The jaw was often locked by these violent spasms. Muscles throughout the entire body were affected, including the vital muscles necessary for breathing. When the breathing muscles lost their power, drawing a breath became difficult, if not impossible, and death most often occurred unless extreme life-support measures were taken. The disease's progress on average was one to seven days. There was no timetable for fatality. Spock sighed. Dr. McCoy, even with his 'beads and rattles' could cure him with one shot of a hypospray. Without that, in this time period, he was doomed to a slow and horrible death due to repeated, excessive muscle contractions or, alternatively, cardiac arrest and pulmonary edema.

Better to die on his feet, he thought as he stirred; seeking to make his irrational choice to remain on his feet rational.

Spock roused from meditation and rose from his seated position. He stretched like a cat and was instantly and _savagely_ punished when the muscles in his injured thigh contracted and drove him back to the ground. He used what was left of his Vulcan strength to massage the knot out, and then rose and began to hobble forward. He was still linked to D'Ayron. He had a sense that the Romulan was in peril; that – _ironically_ – for the other man, time was also running out. It was cold comfort to realize that his own disintegrating emotional control was directing him, and making it possible for him to hone in on his descendant.

The question was: could he remain viable long enough to locate him?

D'Ayron was the key. The Romulan was in contact with the Initiators. Spock had brushed his knowledge of them during the mindmeld. There was an answer there to the riddles that plagued them, but it was hidden – masked by his own inability to concentrate and understand just what it was he had ' _seen_ '. He needed to link to D'Ayron again to find out what this was all about. The Initiators were not what they appeared to be.

Though he did not as yet know _what_ they were.

As Spock walked, the pain in his leg eased, but he felt a tale-tell flicker of a muscular contraction along his jaw. It was only the beginning, he knew. _Clostridium tetani_ had the ability to cause such powerful spasms that bones could break and joints dislocate. It was known for causing _risus sardonicus,_ _or what was referred to as a sardonic smile._

If he survived, McCoy would never let him live _that_ one down.

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Tor'magh's sneer was enough to make D'Ayron wish that Klingons were as non-emotional as Vulcans. There was something in it of ultimate triumph, and that sickened him. Why the Initiators had chosen to plague him with a third in command culled from the ranks of that gnashing, brooding batch of rabid dogs he had no idea. Klingons were infinitely inferior to Romulans. All brute strength and barely any brain. And yet, Tor'magh had relished his part in their scheme – or so it seemed. It had been he, along with S'Tahl, who had come to this place ahead of D'Ayron and planted the seeds that would allow Rain of Stars to become the Shawnee war chief. And it was Tor'magh who had gone to the settlements, spreading word of that war chief's fame. Perhaps the _dog_ was not so stupid as he seemed. All along the altered Klingon had been a 'man' with a plan, and now D'Ayron's own bungling had paved the way for him to put into practice.

"You are very quiet, Romulan," Tor'magh hissed. " _Too_ quiet. I do not trust you. What are you planning?"

"Your date with death, Klingon," D'Ayron snarled.

"It is _I_ who hold the weapon."

"Yes. Yes, you do. But you do not use it. Why?"

The sneer curled one cocoa brown lip higher. "Perhaps it is not yet _your_ date."

A chill snaked down D'Ayron's spine. "What is it you want from me?"

"I want nothing from you, but that you can bring _him_ to me. I was wrong to try to kill the Vulcan coward before. There is information I want, information you can get from him for me. The history tapes reveal that not even the Klingon mindsifter can make a Vulcan talk. He would die brain-damaged first." Tor'magh's lips parted as the sneer, transmuted into a smile of pure evil. "But you can make him talk – mind to mind."

"Why? What good would Spock's knowledge be to you?" Then he had it. In Tor'magh he suddenly saw a vile reflection of himself. "You mean to make the Klingon Empire supreme."

"I have all along. Did you think I agreed to work for the Initiators for _their_ good?" Tor'magh's laugh drove the birds from the trees. "No more than you."

That was not true. In the beginning he had believed in the Initiators. He had joined them to prevent the Federation from using time travel as a weapon – and then chosen to use it as one himself.

He was without honor.

Like a predatory creature, Tor'magh moved in. He caught D'Ayron's arm and pressed the butt of the flintlock pistol under his chin. This close the Klingon would not have chanced firing an energy weapon, but the ancient pistol could kill him and leave the other man unharmed. The Romulan commander calculated the likelihood that he would survive such a blast. Fortunately, the percentage was negligible.

"Now, Romulan, _where is Spock?"_

D'Ayron steeled himself for the blast. Even if he had known, he would not have given the Vulcan away. With his choice, a sort of peace settled over him – a peace that was disrupted by the abrupt impression of a particular mind close by.

 _No,_ the Romulan projected. _No, Spock!_ _Run!_

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Spock had come across the scene quite unexpectedly. He had been following the thread of connectivity to the Romulan when suddenly the mental link had thinned and all but disappeared. He did not think D'Ayron dead, just distracted. As he followed the mind trail, the Vulcan had come to realize that the reason the connection was so _vital_ was that his descendant was seeking _him_ as well. Theirs were two like minds blended into one call, the result of which was a sort of homing beacon. For the last mile or so he had instead had to rely on his own faltering abilities. It was like stumbling in the dark. He had almost burst upon the scene unawares, but something – _intuition_ , Jim would have called it – had warned him and stopped him in time. Clinging to the shadows of the trees, Spock waited and listened. He also _learned_. Tume was a surgically-altered Klingon such as they had dealt with on Space Station K-7. Interesting. Briefly, Spock wondered if the Klingon's skin pigment had been altered as well, or if there were both dark and light-skinned races on Klinzhai; then he dismissed the train of thought as wasteful and extraneous. The presence of the third arm of the triangle that fought for dominion in their galaxy meant something. Something _important._ He only wished he had the capacity to think it through. Unfortunately, _rationally_ he had to admit that his thought processes were hampered by a body in the process of shutting down.

Klingon. Romulan. Human. And, if you included _him_ , Vulcan as well. All here. All a part of whatever scheme or game the Initiators were playing with time. It was like a great three dimensional chess board upon which they were being moved as players. But to what end? What did the Initiators hope to gain – or to find out?

Spock stood now, a hand to one of the trees, battling for control of his muscles. So far the spasms were fairly mild. They would not remain so. The next stage of the disease would bring cramps comparable to the painful bruising of the quadriceps muscle of the thigh that resulted in a muscular hematoma, sometimes referred to as a Charley horse by humans. He could well be debilitated. No matter how divided D'Ayron's loyalties, the Klingon threat was clear. Though he doubted the Initiators would allow Tume's scheme to succeed, he was not yet certain of his theory and so, for now, he had to act as if the threat was real and present. Tume, or Tor'magh's plans for altering time could _not_ be realized.

He had to stop him.

As he stepped out of the trees, the Vulcan heard the mind-scream of his many times removed son shout for him to leave. He ignored it.

"Tor'magh," Spock said clearly. "I am here."

The elegant black man whirled, bringing a captured D'Ayron with him. Tor'magh's flintlock pistol was firmly wedged under the young Romulan's jaw. Spock studied him, seeking the Klingon bone structure. It was there, though subtly altered. _Unaltered_ was the look of pure racial hatred burning in his black eyes.

"You will tell me what I want to know, Federation puppet, or I will blow a hole through this one's head! Do you hear me, Vulcan?" Tor'magh shouted as he fingered the trigger. Spock held very still. He had to assume the pistol was already primed and loaded.

"I hear you," Spock answered. He continued walking until he was several feet away, and then stopped and linked his hands behind his back. The Vulcan fought a rising spasm that threatened to lock his jaw. When it passed, he asked evenly, "Why do you think I would betray my duty and honor for a Romulan?"

Tor'magh faltered. Spock had deduced the correct approach. Tor'magh knew D'Ayron had sought him out, but obviously he did not know _why._ "He is your ally!" the Klingon shouted.

"He is not," Spock said as he moved a step to the pair.

"Do not lie, Federation dog! I know this one brought you here and sought you out. The Federation is in league with the Romulans! You seek to use _time_ to bring the Klingon Empire to its knees!"

Spock remained calm. And took another step. "Vulcans do not lie. Can the same be said of Klingons?"

"To lie is to _be_ a Klingon," D'Ayron rasped and was rewarded with a slap against the head.

Spock sought D'Ayron's gaze. He did not think Tor'magh knew of their link, though obviously the Klingon knew of the Romulan's ability to extract or plant information in someone's mind; he had seen it used on Unemake and others.

 _Do not antagonize the Klingon_ , _D'Ayron,_ he sent. _There is no need for you to die._ _Tor'magh will get nothing from me as I will soon be dead._

 _No! I will save you._

 _You can not. You are not a healer. And I am not certain even a healer could help me now. You must live so you can stop this game._

 _Game?_ D'Ayron asked, wide-eyed. _What game?_

 _Insufficient data to elaborate,_ Spock returned.

"You're very quiet, Vulcan. Are you scheming?" Tor'magh growled.

"Vulcans do not scheme," he replied, keeping his tone completely flat. "That is for Klingons who are without honor."

What he had been waiting for happened. Tor'magh lost his temper. The Klingon swung the end of the pistol away from D'Ayron's throat and pointed it at his chest.

" _Do they die?"_ he screamed as he fired.

As the ball left the chamber D'Ayron struck the Klingon's arm, sending the shot wild. It took mo more than five seconds before the two men's positions were reversed. The Romulan kicked Tor'magh's legs out from under him and drove him back and to the ground. Sitting on top of him, D'Ayron pulled the Klingon's knife from his waist belt and pressed it into his throat.

"Now _you_ die!" he growled.

"D'Ayron, no." Spock walked haltingly toward him. "There is no need to kill."

The Romulan's amber eyes were wild with blood lust. "He would have killed _you!_ "

He nodded. When he spoke, the Vulcan's words were fiercely quiet. "Then, since the threat was to me, it is for me to decide. And I say 'no.'"

Every sinew and nerve in the young Romulan that had been bred of his mother's warrior line cried out against Spock's thousand years of peace. D'Ayron's body went rigid. His mind clamped down. He glared at the Klingon who was sputtering under the strength of the hold he had on his throat. Then, faster than Spock's eye could follow, D'Ayron's arm that wielded the knife rose and came down with savage strength – bringing the weapon to bear _butt_ first.

Tor'magh groaned and pitched onto the ground senseless.

D'Ayron stared at his fallen enemy for a moment and then staggered to his feet. None of them had had rest or food in many hours and their lack was tolling. The Romulan hesitated and then crossed to where Spock was standing and held the knife out to him.

 _I will not kill…today_ , he projected through the link.

Spock accepted the blade _. It is a start_ , he sent back with a gentle mental smile. Then, clutching his back, the Vulcan crumpled to the ground as a violent spasm rocked his ravaged frame.

D'Ayron fell to his knees beside him. For a second he was at a loss. Then, before Spock could think to stop him, the Romulan planted his fingers on either side of his face and poured his own life energy into him. His descendant's amber eyes glazed over and a sheen of perspiration broke out on his bronze skin. A moment later the pain eased and Spock was able to lie flat. The occurrence left him gasping for breath.

D'Ayron, on the other hand, seemed to have _stopped_ breathing. The Vulcan wanted to strike his hands away, but he hadn't the strength. One hundred heartbeats later the Romulan shuddered and stirred. He sucked in air like a mammal who has held its breath too long beneath the water and commanded, "You will not… _die!"_

"He will, Rain of Stars," a new voice pronounced. "But _you_ will die first."

Spock turned his head even as his vision faded. He knew the man who spoke. It was the shaman, Unemake.

Behind him, there were at least twenty well-armed Shawnee.


	20. Chapter 20

Chapter Twenty

James T. Kirk turned to find himself staring down the barrel of a very long rifle held by a very tall, _very_ secure warrior. The man's arms were bronzed ripples. Even his muscles had muscles. He was lean as, though less spare than Spock, with a head of the same patent leather hair going azure in the rising light. His costume was quaint: a painted leather vest that barely contained another set of rippling muscles, a weapons belt from which a number of deadly looking instruments hung, and a pair of blue wool felt trousers with a red stripe running down the outside of each leg.

They made him look like a aircar parking attendant.

Kirk raised his hands even as he climbed to his feet. In one was a cluster of red berries. He smiled at his assailant and said, accompanying the words with his most _charming_ smile, "Sure you don't care to try some?"

The native was not amused. His near-black eyes took in Kirk's gold uniform shirt, bloodied from battle, his black pants and regulation boots. They narrowed slightly after finishing the inspection, as if the change of focus might make it possible to see him in a new light.

"Who are you?" the native asked.

"You first," Kirk offered. "It's only polite."

The warrior's upper lip twitched. " 'Politeness is the art of choosing among one's real thoughts'," he replied.

Kirk blinked. The native's tone ran like a river on a clear, untroubled day. His pronunciation was crisp and just as clean. "Pardon me," the starship captain said, "you _are_ Shawnee, aren't you?"

The man's brow crinkled like a tossed off piece of parchment. "Do I _look_ Shawnee?"

"You don't _sound_ Shawnee."

The lip rebelled again. He almost smiled. "What _do_ I sound like?"

Kirk thought a moment. Then he shrugged. "My English professor at the Academy?"

A second later the starship captain got the shock of his life. The native's left eyebrow arched and he muttered, "Fascinating."

Into the stunned silence that followed came the sound of someone breaking through the underbrush. It made both of them turn. The native did not lower the rifle until he saw who it was. Like a dryad out of ancient Greece, Lieutenant Uhura appeared from out of the green shadows. When she saw the two of them together, she did a strange thing – her beautiful face broke with a smile and she beamed.

Uhura's hands went to her shapely hips and she pronounced, "And here I was worried about you, Captain."

He glanced at the tall native. "I think you might have had reason to be."

The lieutenant looked puzzled.

"Mingo heap big warrior," the elegant native said, thumbing his chest as he did. "Scare small man in gold shirt mighty much."

Kirk pulled his ruined shirt down and straightened up to his full height – which was still about five inches too short. If Spock had been that size, the Vulcan would have _really_ been intimidating.

"Mingo, I assume," he said, stepping forward with his hand extended.

"I am afraid you have the advantage of me."

"And about time," Kirk murmured under his breath. "Captain James T. Kirk. Lieutenant…er, Miss…Uhura is my…."

She came close. In the communication officer's eyes was a confession she obviously thought best kept to herself. "He knows, sir. Not everything, but most of it."

"You told him?" Kirk bristled.

Before she could shake her head, Mingo answered, "Not Nyota. Spock."

Kirk whirled, instantly ready for action. "Spock? How? Where?"

"Captain," Uhura interrupted. "Dr. McCoy sent me. He's ready to move Mr. Boone."

Mingo looked like she had slapped him in the face. "What has happened to Daniel?"

Kirk glanced at his bloody shirt. The tall native did not miss the gesture. "About a hundred Shawnee and one musket ball," he answered grimly. As Mingo grew alarmed, the captain continued, "Our ship's surgeon is with him now. Umbele is there too. Daniel's stabilized." Kirk stopped, rewound. "I mean he's out of danger for the moment."

"I must see him," the warrior proclaimed in a voice that was not to be denied.

Kirk caught his arm in passing. "I understand. Daniel told me about you. You and he are brothers. Spock is my…brother. I need to find him."

Mingo locked eyes with him. For a moment it was like two bulls clashing. Then, as Spock would have, the tall native yielded with a nod. "I must see Daniel for myself, and then I will help you."

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

They arrived at the bottom of the ridge no more than five minutes later. McCoy was waiting for them with Yadkin at his side. The pair had rigged a travois to bear the unconscious frontiersman back to his settlement and safety. As they approached Bones did a double-take. Kirk knew why. Here came his captain, flanked by a tall alien-looking creature with raven-black hair and one raised eyebrow.

It appeared the universe was trying to right itself.

"Jim?" McCoy jawed.

The blond man beside Bones exploded incoherently. "Goldarnit, Mingo! I shoulda knowed you'd show up!" Yadkin proclaimed, a silly grin slapping his weather-beaten face. "Here me and the doc thought you was gone beaver. We've had a hogshead of trouble since we set to followin' that trail of your'n."

Kirk looked to the native for translation. Mingo pursed his lips and sighed. "Yadkin is happy to see me."

"Obviously," the captain said with a roll of his eyes. "Bones, how's Boone?"

"Holding his own. There's nothing more I can do for him really other than sit and hold his hand, and Umbele is doing that _quite_ nicely. She's quite a lady!"

"I wonder what Rebecca would think of that," Mingo said as he walked forward. "May I see him, Doctor?"

"Is that the pretty redhead I met at the tavern?" McCoy asked.

Mingo nodded.

"Best medicine a man could get. _Two_ pretty women." He shook hands with Mingo and then said, "Come on, I'll take you to him."

As they disappeared around the bend of rocks and Yadkin went back to keeping watch, Uhura turned to her captain and asked as always, "What now, sir?"

Responsibility righted itself and sat squarely on his shoulders. "I want to find Spock – I _need_ to find Spock, but I can't let that be my main focus. There's something going on here. Something more than Willow said."

"Willow, sir?" Uhura's coal black brows winged toward the rising morn.

"Ask McCoy," he sighed wearily as the doctor and Mingo appeared once again, "when he gets back."

"Back?" Bones ears weren't pointed, but they were sharp. "Where am I going?"

"With me, to find Spock and stop the time travelers."

"Is that all?" the surgeon bristled. "I can't leave my patient – "

"You just said there was nothing more you could do for him."

"Well, I didn't mean it."

Kirk's scowl was withering. "Are you in the habit of lying to me, Doctor?"

"Jim…."

"I _need_ you, Bones. Uhura says Spock was badly wounded. He's been out there for nearly two days. No one else…." He glanced at Yadkin who was leaning on his rifle and watching them closely. "No one else understands his _unique_ physiology."

"You talkin' about that there green blood of his?" the blond man asked before he spit. "Thought that was mighty funny myself afore the doc explained it."

 _That_ must have been a performance worthy of the Bard, Kirk thought. "Would you care to explain it to _me_ , doctor?"

"You didn't get those stripes for book learning, so I suppose I'll have to," Bones snapped back. The surgeon glanced at the place where Daniel Boone lay, sheltered from the rising sun. "If that green-blooded hobgoblin didn't always find a way to get himself into trouble – " he groused.

"You'd be out of a job."

McCoy scowled at him and then kicked him lightly in the calf – just above the bandage.

"Ouch!"

"No such luck."

"Bones!"

"Let me get my bag. I'll need to show Uhura…." He glanced at Yadkin and then shook his head. "I'll need to show Uhura what to do. If I could, I'd let Umbele handle it. She's got a doctor's ways. But…." Bones eyes met his. "Uhura will need to _administer_ the drugs to fight off infection." Translation: handle the hypo-spray.

Mingo looked at Uhura and Yadkin who were standing side by side. "Daniel is a big man. His transport will not prove an easy enterprise."

"You're not coming with us?" the lieutenant asked, her tone sorely disappointed.

"I must show James the way," he apologized softly. "If possible, I would wish nothing more than to accompany you, Nyota."

Yadkin missed what was happening between the two entirely. "Surely one of them there Shawnee had a horse," he said as he stomped off. "I'll be back when I find one. Or, if I find a Shawnee instead, we'll just hitch _him_ up."

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

"Where do you suppose they are, Jim?" McCoy asked as he joined him some time later, doctor bag in hand. Uhura, Umbele and Yadkin – and one slightly miffed horse – had just taken off for the settlement. "The natives, I mean."

"Hopefully? Canada." Kirk drew a breath and puffed it out instead of his chest. "Probably? Regrouping, I would guess."

"You think they still intend to attack the settlement? Is it safe then to send Uhura and Yadkin – "

"No, I don't, Bones. I think _they_ think they were betrayed. I think the Shawnee are hunting the one called Rain of Stars."

Mingo joined them, parking appropriately to Kirk's right; the matching bookend for McCoy on his left. "That would make sense. The Shawnee are highly superstitious. I would not put it beyond Unemake to use this change of fortune as a means of extricating himself. As a shaman, he could turn events around to support the hypothesis that Rain of Stars was false all along and that he should be destroyed."

McCoy blinked at him. "Hypothesis? What kind of native uses the word 'hypothesis'?"

"One who has studied at Oxford."

"In a pig's eyes!" McCoy spat.

There it was. That errant eyebrow rising. "Do you doubt my veracity, Doctor?"

"Good God, Jim! There's _two_ of him!"

Mingo hesitated, and then his face broke like sun on a rain-washed morning and he smiled. "I believe I might have failed to mention, Dr. McCoy, that I started my adulthood by trodding the boards."

It was McCoy's turn to blink. "Huh?"

"He was an actor, Bones."

"Oh." Then the surgeon brightened. "So you were just pulling my leg?"

"Why would I endeavor to do such a thing?" Mingo asked, perfectly deadpan.

Bones gave up. He threw his hands in the air and started to walk away. Kirk took a step after him. "Where are you going?" he asked.

"Anywhere but here!" the surgeon tossed over his shoulder.

The two of them watched him for a moment. Then Mingo bowed and made a smooth gesture with his hand. "Shall we?"

Kirk's look was skeptical. He glanced after the doctor's retreating form. "Is he headed in the right direction?"

Mingo shrugged. "When he runs into the river, he'll turn back."

And sure enough, he did.

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

He had never thought to face death on his knees.

Spock grimaced as he fought to control his rebellious muscles. D'Ayron knelt behind him and placed his arms about his chest, steadying him. The Romulan stared down the approaching Shawnee like a mother lion protecting her cub. If Spock had been human the scene would have perplexed him – a Romulan fiercely defending a Vulcan? But he was not human and he understood. Their meld had been sealed in blood.

"Can you fight?" D'Ayron asked him.

Spock shook his head.

"Can you run?"

Again, no. "Leave me," he panted between gritted teeth.

"It is me they want, not you." D'Ayron released him and Spock nearly collapsed. Then, deliberately, the young Romulan stepped in front of him. "It is me you want!" he shouted.

"Yes, it is you," Unemake said as he pushed through the line of hostile Shawnee. His thick lips curled in a sneer. "But it is your _demon_ as well."

"I see you have persuaded the men that _you_ have no fault in this," D'Ayron snarled.

The shaman held his head high. He lifted a hand and pointed. "I was under _that_ one's power."

Convenient, Spock thought, and interesting. He had never been a scapegoat before. Summoning every ounce of strength he had left, the Vulcan somehow managed to climb to his feet. Remaining on them was an exercise in denial. "What…criteria do you offer…to support your…hypothesis?" he asked, pacing his words with pain.

Unemake's scowl deepened. "What are these words?"

It was Spock's turn to frown. He fought off the grimace the gesture gave birth to and answered, "Forgive me. What…proof do you have…that I am a demon?"

"You fell from the sky in a strange metal craft. You are not like other men. The truth is written in your face." To the hushed murmurs of his men, he added, "You _bleed_ green."

Spock's left eyebrow peaked. "I do not believe…I have ever heard of a demon doing so." D'Ayron flashed him a puzzled look. The Vulcan did not react. "You have failed to…prove your point."

Throughout their conversation, as Spock grew more calm, Unemake became ever more incensed. The Shawnee snatched a knife from one of his men and stalked the distance between them. Reaching past D'Ayron, he shoved it toward Spock. "This is the only point you will take, demon!"

It was the opening Spock had been waiting for. Faster than seemed possible, the Vulcan reached out and dropped the shaman with a nerve pinch.

Picking up on the gasp of fear the action elicited from the gathered Shawnee, D'Ayron proclaimed loudly, "My demon kills with a touch. Who dares to challenge him, or me? Do you?" he asked, moving toward one of the trembling warriors. "Or you?" he asked another.

The men held their ground for ten heartbeats and then scattered.

The Romulan laughed long and hard as he watched them disappear. "That seals it, Spock. You _have_ to come back with me. With my own personal demon I can rule the Empire before I am – "

Spock was huddled on the ground, trembling. Another wracking pain had hit his back and it had taken everything in him not to arc into a bone-breaking curve. He had not been looking at D'Ayron. As the Romulan fell silent, he looked up.

The son of Dyan tensed and then screamed as he began to run. "No!"

Spock noted the Romulan's eyes were fastened on something that lay behind his own quivering form. Barely able to maintain control, he turned to look and saw Tor'magh rising like the demon Unemake had named _him_ ; his flintlock pistol pointed at Spock's head. There was a click and the gun fired.

Illogical as it was, Spock thought, death would almost come as a relief.

A second later D'Ayron was vaulting over him. The Romulan rolled and came to his feet just in time for the musket ball to strike him in the chest. He gasped and fell, landing on Spock and then rolling off.

Tor'magh was groggy and unsure on his feet, but he was certain of what he would do next. Drawing new powder and another ball from his shoulder bag, he began to load his pistol again. Spock glanced at D'Ayron where the young Romulan lay bleeding, his blood painting the Kentucky grass a deeper green. He could not tell if it had been a killing shot. Romulans, like Vulcans, carried their hearts low on their left hand side. The ball seemed to have taken him in the center of the chest. If D'Ayron had been human, he would have been dead.

The Klingon, gloating, came to stand over them. "Now it is your turn, Vulcan. I was right to begin with. The best thing for you to do _is_ die."

Spock shifted wearily. He turned as if to avoid the blow –

As if.

A second later he pivoted sharply and thrust up, driving Unemake's knife deep into the Klingon's heart.

He knew _exactly_ where it was.

For a second Tor'magh's arrogant face registered his surprise. Then he tumbled to the ground and this time, stayed there.

Spock was breathing hard. His respiration was growing more difficult. The spasms were moving to his larynx. Using his fingers as claws, he dragged himself to D'Ayron's side and placed a hand on the young Romulan's chest. The mind link flickered, faintly. He was not dead, but it would not be long.

Overcome at last, Spock lost consciousness. He fell, clutching his long removed son's hand.

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

It was Kirk who found him. Spock. Bathed in green. His skin, deathly white. Totally still.

 _Totally_ still.

The strange tableau in the forest was as moving as it was incomprehensible. He and Mingo had passed a dozen frightened Shawnee on their way. The tall native had caught one of the men and questioned him, but the warrior's answers made no sense. He spoke of the shaman and the war chief, and the war chief's demon, and of how the demon had won.

The battle looked hard fought but it didn't seem that _anyone_ had won.

As Kirk hesitated, stunned, McCoy moved to claim his rightful place at Spock's side. Mingo had followed the Shawnee to make certain they did not return, so that left the two of them alone with his discovery. The doctor did a double-take as he examined the fallen men, then his training kicked in. Before the starship captain could shudder free of his unsubstantiated fear, McCoy dropped to the ground, medical scanner in hand. The shock that registered on his face when he looked at the readings was acid to Kirk's already bleeding heart. Bones ran it again, shook his head, and then looked up.

"Good God, Jim! He's a mass of infection."

That was good, Kirk thought. Wasn't it? Who'd care if a dead man was infected? "Bones, is he _alive?"_

"Barely."

Kirk moved to join the surgeon, still unnerved by the silence and the still more silent bodies. He'd seen worse before, but this was something he had hoped _never_ to see: Spock, _covered_ in green blood.

"It's not his, Jim," McCoy said kindly, as if reading his mind. "The Romulan."

Kirk looked. He saw a native. "What Romulan?"

"This one," Bones said, his scanner humming. Then, gently, he brushed the man's deep umber hair back to reveal one pointed ear.

Kirk gulped. "Is he alive?"

McCoy nodded absentmindedly. "Barely."

"Can't you say anything else?"

The surgeon looked over his shoulder. "Well, that one's a Klingon. Does that make you happy?"

" _A Klingon!"_

"Scanned him a second ago. He's dead."

As McCoy eased Spock's form off of the Romulan and laid him gently in the grass, Kirk knelt beside the dead Klingon. He had been surgically altered to look like a human and was dressed quite elegantly for the time. Kirk noted the silver buckles on his shoes. This must be Uhura's slaver. What had she called him – Tume?

What was a Klingon doing on 19th century Earth pretending to be a slaver? Was he one of the Initiator's agents? Kirk looked at the man beside Spock.

Was the Romulan?

Returning to McCoy's side, he was startled to find him tending to the enemy. "Bones, what are you doing?"

"Spock's battling a massive infection. I gave him a massive broad spectrum antibiotic shot. There's nothing else I can do for the moment." He lifted a pressure bandage out of his bag and covered the back side with adhesive spray. "This man, Romulan or not, is bleeding to death! You want me to let him _die?"_

Kirk swallowed over his guilt. "No, of course not. Sorry, Bones. I'm worried about Spock."

"You should be," the surgeon growled. "Worst case of tetanus I've ever seen."

The ship's captain glanced at the Vulcan's death-mask face. He knelt by his side and touched his arm and was startled. Spock was always hot, but today he was on _fire_. "Tetanus? You mean what happens when you step on a rusty nail?"

"It's nothing when you get immunized beforehand. Immediate treatment takes care of it with only a little discomfort." Bones reached into his bag and pulled out several squishy bags full of green fluid. "Damn Spock's Vulcan hide! He won't admit his human half. This isn't the first time that denying it has almost killed him."

"What?"

McCoy was preparing an emergency intravenous feed. The doctor's voice trailed off as he became engaged in his work. "Medical records. Ask him about that bout of chickenpox some time."

Several minutes passed while McCoy worked on both men. Kirk watched him with growing admiration. Whatever anyone thought of the curmudgeonly southern doctor, he knew his stuff. Finally, the surgeon reached up and wiped his brow. Then he rocked back on his heels.

"This one will make it," he said of the Romulan. Bones hesitated, chewing his lower lip. Then just those ice-blue eyes looked up. "You know, Jim, I packed that green blood for Spock."

"What _about_ Spock?" He looked at his friend. There was little or no color in the Vulcan's cheeks and he didn't seem to be breathing. Kirk resisted the childish urge to place his head low on Spock's torso and check for a heartbeat.

"Trickier. The disease has progressed at an incredibly rapid pace, probably due to overexertion and stress. I really need to get him to the ship, Jim."

"You and what time tube?" Kirk muttered.

"Jim," Bones answered, in that tone that indicated there was something more – something he probably did _not_ want to hear.

The blond man glanced at his friend. "What? Am I waiting on the other shoe to drop?"

"Did you listen to what I said before?"

He thought back. He thought he had. "Didn't I?"

"I said, I used the blood I brought for Spock on the Romulan."

"So?"

McCoy stifled a sigh. "Spock's a hybrid, remember?"

It was beginning to penetrate the fog. "Yes…"

"T-negative blood is extremely rare and Spock's has certain human factors."

Kirk's honey colored eyebrows waggled. He felt like a prize pupil letting his professor down. "And…."

"Well, Romulans have nearly the same blood types."

It was like pulling teeth. "Bones, what are you getting at?"

"I can't explain it, Jim, but this Romulan has T-negative blood with positive human factors. Oh, it's only a trace, but it's there."

"Captain," a pained voice broke in.

Both men whirled. Spock was awake! Kirk knelt beside him and placed a hand on his shoulder. "You'll be all right. It'll just take some time."

"Damn it, Spock!" McCoy said at the same time. "You shouldn't be awake!"

"Bones." Kirk shot a warning salvo with his hazel eyes. "Let him talk."

"D'Ayron?" Spock asked, his fevered eyes reflecting real concern.

"D'Ayron? The Romulan? You beat him Spock. He's alive, but he won't hurt anyone – "

"Jim." Spock's hand gripped his arm and he felt a violent spasm pass through his friend's battered and bruised frame. "Not…the enemy."

Kirk glanced at the young Romulan. D'Ayron's cheeks had more color now – well, at least they were tinged green. "No?" he asked.

"No," Spock rasped just before his hand fell to his side.

"Family."


	21. Chapter 21

Chapter Twenty-one

The second floor of Cincinnatus Jones' tavern and inn looked like a hospital ward in a very strange war. Jim Kirk paced the hallway, waiting for the ship's surgeon to complete his work with Spock. As he did, he glanced into the other rooms. In one lay Daniel Boone. A stunning redhead, who had been introduced to him as Rebecca, Daniel's wife, sat at the frontiersman's bedside holding his hand. They had had to pull a fast one with Boone, switching out the space age pressure bandage for old style linen, but Bones had proven – as he often did – that he was up to any challenge.

Even a Romulan with a wound from a flintlock.

Kirk had set Uhura to attend to D'Ayron. The Romulan, like Spock, had not yet regained consciousness, though it had been nearly a day since they had carried the two men to the inn. Mingo, who had left them to scout the area, had returned providentially with a horse in hand. Kirk had ridden it, bearing Spock's still form before him like a warrior from the field. D'Ayron, they had rigged a travois for. The Klingon…

Well, someday some archeologist was going to have a field day with _those_ bones!

Spock's condition worried him. There was only so much any man – or Vulcan – could take. The cumulative list of his first officer's injuries was staggering. Bones had ticked them off one by one – the fall from the shuttlecraft, the wounded leg, the tetanus infection, some sort of injury to his neck, burns to his back and arms, the blood loss…. For some reason the 19th century had been particularly hostile to his friend. If Spock had been totally human, he would have lost him.

But then, that had been true many times before.

Kirk paused by the door to the Romulan's room. As he did, Uhura looked up and smiled. She had a book in her hands and was dressed – for propriety – in one of Rebecca Boone's gowns. It was cut of a deep blue cloth and fit her curvaceous form well. Lit by the morning light spilling in the open window, his communications officer looked stunning. When she saw him, Uhura rose and placed the book on her seat. Then she came to the door.

"Good morning, sir. Did you sleep well?"

"Yes," he lied. He hadn't slept at all.

She accepted the prevarication as any good officer would. "I'm glad to hear it, sir."

He nodded toward the motionless figure on the bed. "How's our patient?"

"Mending."

"Has he spoken yet?"

"No, sir. Dr. McCoy said it will most likely be another day at the very least. He has him pretty heavily sedated."

Kirk mulled that over. And the surgeon had done it without an order from _him_. Wonders _would_ never cease. "I heard you last night, about 3:00 in the morning. You and Bones moving around. What was that?"

Her smile said it all. "I thought you were asleep, sir."

He shrugged. "Hot chocolate break."

"It was…well, _providential,_ sir."

"Providential?"

"This is the room Boone's son, Israel, and his sister occupied. When we arrived they moved to a friend's cabin nearby. I couldn't sleep, and was tidying up and…." Uhura paused and walked to the other side of the room. She returned with a cloth sack from which she lifted a Starfleet issued medical kit. "The boy must have found it when he was in the forest with Mingo, sir." At his confused expression, she added, "This is the one Dr. McCoy prepared for our trip – with Vulcan blood. The doctor said the extra amount probably saved D'Ayron's life."

"D'Ayron?"

"The Romulan, sir. Mr. Spock mentioned it before he lost consciousness." She pursed her lips. "Or so _you_ said…."

"Oh, right. Right." It wouldn't do to admit that he was tired, but he _was_. After he rubbed them, Kirk's eyes returned to the Romulan enigma lying on the bed. _Family_ , Spock had called him. For a Vulcan there was no meaning to that word other than the one a person would suppose. Somehow his first officer and this Romulan were related. By blood.

And he'd thought he had a headache _before_ ….

"Sir, how is Mr. Spock?"

He shook his head wearily. "Bones is with him now."

"Will he recover?"

Kirk hesitated. "I don't know. Continue on, lieutenant."

She straightened to a military posture. "Yes, sir."

It was amusing in the colonial dress. She looked like a skirted peg driven into the ground. "At ease, Lieutenant," he said with a weary smile. "Oh, and good work."

Uhura beamed. "Thank you, sir."

Kirk glanced back at Spock's room, but the door was still shut tightly against him. McCoy's subtle way of shouting 'stay out!' Obedient, for once, Kirk moved on to the next room where Daniel Boone lay mending. He paused at the door. Mrs. Boone's head was bent in prayer and he had no desire to disturb her. A moment later he heard her murmur 'amen'. She rose then and turned and gave a little gasp when she saw him standing there.

Kirk raised a hand. "I didn't mean to startle you. How is your husband doing?"

For a long moment Rebecca Boones said nothing. She just _stared_ at him. He was dressed now as a frontiersman in breeches, boots, and a rust colored linen shirt, so there was nothing out of the ordinary to see. Slightly amused, Kirk pivoted and looked behind him. When he turned back he grinned, "I don't see any monsters."

Her look was entirely serious. "Neither do I."

Uhura had reported that when they brought Rebecca's husband in, the redhead had taken everything in stride. Oh, she had been horrified to see Daniel's condition, but nothing Bones or Uhura did or said had seemed to faze her. The lieutenant admitted they had been forced to use some modern methods to save the frontiersman. When they removed the pressure pack, the bleeding had started again and Bones had given the big man blood. They had tried to keep Mrs. Boone out, but she had been adamant about remaining at her husband's side the entire time.

What did this woman know? And how?

After a moment, Kirk tried again. "You never answered my question, Mrs. Boone. How is your husband?"

"Becky," she insisted.

He tried it with a grin. "Becky."

"Dan will be all right," she answered as she returned to his side. "He's strong, but I think – this time – if it hadn't been for you and your friends….. I would have lost him."

"The _world_ would have lost him," he murmured.

"Dan's important, isn't he?" she asked, her blue marble eyes widening. "I mean, in creating where you come from."

"I come from Iowa," he answered easily, not lying this time.

"Iowa?" she asked, puzzled.

 _Oops._ No Iowa yet. He turned up the charm. "A little Indian village not far from here."

She laughed. "You are a very bad liar, Captain Kirk."

"Jim."

She nodded. "Jim." Then suddenly growing serious, her eyes widening with images they were not meant to imagine, Rebecca Boone went on. "I have seen you. On the bridge of your ship, with all the _stars_ rushing by. I have seen you sailing the _sky!"_ She sucked in air as if drowning. "And always, with him by your side."

If this trip to the past had done anything, it was to dig deeper furrows in his brow. "What?"

"Spock was dying. I…touched him."

 _Good God!_ Daniel Boone's wife had mindmelded with a Vulcan. What would the historians say about that? Kirk's lips twisted. Nothing really. They'd probably just file it next to the photos of the Klingon bones unearthed in late eighteenth century Kentucky.

"Mrs. Boone…."

"It's all right. I'll keep your secret. You don't have to worry." She laid a hand on his arm. "I know you. I know you _all_ and you are good men."

"Even the one who _isn't_ a man?" he asked softly.

She turned her face toward the room where Spock lay, fighting for his life.

"Him most of all."

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Kirk met Bones coming out Spock's room, closing the door behind him. His face was set in grim lines. When the surgeon turned and started for the stairs as if he hadn't seen him, Kirk caught his friend by the shoulder.

"Bones. How is he? Is he cured?"

McCoy's eyes were puddles of fatigue and worry. "There _is_ no cure for tetanus in this century, Jim."

"What about in _our_ century?"

"Piece of cake." Bones scowled. "You got a cake right now?"

Kirk's stomach hit the floor. "You mean he's going to die?"

"Now, I didn't say that. I was able to administer a general antibiotic and several other drugs."

"So, he'll live."

Bones sighed. "I didn't say that either."

"Well, which is it?" Kirk demanded, growing frustrated.

"It's up to Spock. Normally, with that iron – er, _copper_ – constitution of his, I would say there was nothing to worry about. But he was so far down when the infection hit, Jim, and tetanus is as mean as a Klingon and just as tenacious once it takes hold." Bones eyes met his. There was torture in them. "Vulcans are particularly vulnerable to asphyxiation, which is the chief cause of death."

 _Vulnerable._ That was a word he didn't usually associate with Spock.

For several heartbeats Kirk said nothing. Then only, "Can I see him?"

McCoy shrugged, "Can't hurt." Then a weary smile lit his haggard face. "I'd like to think it might even help. Tell him you _need_ him, Jim. Make _him_ fight."

Kirk nodded. Then, as McCoy moved away, he caught the surgeon's elbow. "Did you tell him _you_ needed him, Bones?"

The older man's eyes narrowed and he pulled away. "None of your damn business," he murmured as he headed down the stairs.

The only sound in the room was the rattle of his first officer's labored breathing. Kirk understood now why the door was closed. McCoy had placed a portable respirator over the Vulcan's nose and mouth. From what the surgeon had told him, in advanced cases death most often resulted from a constriction of the muscles involved in breathing. Vulcans had few vulnerabilities.

That was one of them.

Kirk pulled up a chair and sat down beside his friend. Spock looked like he had walked through Hell. His face was unshaven and shaded with several days' growth. He had lost weight – which was something he didn't have a lot of _to_ lose. Kirk had never seen him looking so pale orpained. Whatever Vulcan disciplines Spock normally used to mask the agony were gone; lost along with the world they had left behind on that big starship in the sky. As he watched, the Vulcan's lean frame twitched and convulsed. It was a minor tremor, but still enough to elicit a gasp from the unconscious man. Knowing what that meant – and not knowing what else to do – Kirk reached out and took his friend's hand, making contact.

"Spock. I'm here," he said, projecting as well as saying it. For all the good it would do. "Spock, you've got to _fight_ this. You're strong. You can win."

He felt his friend's arm go rigid, and then his form was wracked again – stronger, this time; the spasm arching his back.

"Spock! Fight!"

 _Jim._

Kirk frowned. The figure on the bed couldn't speak, not with the respirator. He answered in kind, projecting his thoughts. _Spock?_

 _Must tell you._

 _No. Nothing matters except your recovery. Put your energies to that._

 _Logic…dictates otherwise._

 _Damn logic, Spock!_

He didn't know how, but Kirk knew the mental eyebrow had lifted. _Need…to know_ , the Vulcan went on. _Chess._

Had he heard that right? _Chess?_

 _The Initiators. Jim, all…of this. Chess._

 _Jim._

Jim!

 _Spock, what? Spock?_

Kirk hadn't realized he had closed his eyes. They were open now. Gripping his shoulder was a very irate and completely nonplussed Leonard McCoy. "What the hell do you think you are doing? Trying to _kill_ him?"

It took him a moment to remember where he was. "Bones?"

He felt fingers prying at his. "Jim, let go!"

Kirk's hazel eyes flicked to Spock's inert form. The Vulcan was white as the bedding – if still slightly tinted green. His breathing was no longer labored. In fact, it didn't seem he was breathing at all. The starship captain looked at his ship's surgeon and barked an order, "Report!"

McCoy's scowl deepened. He released Kirk's arm and moved to pick up his medical scanner. He ran it and then snapped both it and his comment off. "He's alive. No thanks to you."

Kirk found he was the one breathing hard now. "Not me, Bones. Spock. He had something he wanted to tell me."

McCoy pointed to the respirator. "He can't talk!"

"Here," the blond man tapped his forehead.

"Oh. Vulcan voodoo. What was it?" The surgeon's tone softened a bit. "I hope it was worth his life."

Kirk lowered his eyes until they rested on the Vulcan's quiescent form.

"So do I, Bones. So do I."

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Chess.

James T. Kirk mulled the words he had exchanged with Spock over as he descended the stair to the common room of Cincinnatus Jones' tavern. Upon leaving Spock's room the scent of freshly made coffee – _real_ coffee – had assaulted his senses and drawn him like a Klingon to a brawl. He hadn't slept in several days, not more than a few minutes at a time, and he would need the caffeine if he was to solve what remained of this mystery. For the moment he would have to push his concern for his friend aside. Spock would live or die. There was nothing he could do to change or affect his recovery. Still, if Spock died….

If he died, thenKirk needed to make it _count_ for something.

Chess, he repeated. _Chess?_ What had the Vulcan meant by that?

"Captain Kirk?"

He turned to find a pretty brunette offering him a steaming mug. Gratefully accepting it, he rewarded her with his most charming smile. "Thank you. Miss Boone, isn't it?"

"Jemima."

"That's a pretty name," he answered, broadening the smile to include her instant infatuation. Then he took a sip. As his eyes lit, he added, "And this is better than a pretty good cup of coffee. It's excellent. There's nothing like this on the ship."

"Are you a naval officer?" she asked, all innocence.

"In a way."

"What's it like? Sailing over the seas with the wind at your back and the sails snapping? With only the stars for a pillow and the sea for a blanket?" Her brown eyes were wide with the wonders woven by her own words.

"'I must go down to the seas again, to the lonely sea and the sky, and all I ask is a tall ship and a star to steer her by, and the wheel's kick and the wind's song and the white sail's shaking, and a grey mist on the sea's face, and a grey dawn breaking,'" he quoted.

"That's lovely. Who wrote it?"

Unfortunately, it hadn't _been_ written yet, and wouldn't be for more than a century. "A friend," he lied as he took another sip.

"I wonder if I will ever see such things," Jemima sighed. "Sometimes it seems the four walls of a log cabin are all I'll ever know."

Kirk couldn't recall the Boone's daughter's history, other than the fact that she married Flanders Calloway and had a passel of kids. And lived to a fairly good age. "I'm sure you will find your place, whether it is here or somewhere else."

She glanced back at him. "You sound like Mingo."

"He's a good friend of your family, isn't he?"

She nodded. "I feel sorry for him." Then she caught herself, "Oh, not like pity, never that. It's just. Well, he's so alone."

Like Spock.

"Well, coming from a mixed heritage is never easy. My friend…Spock…is the same. He chose to sail the…seas…where he doesn't have to fit in with either culture. Where he can be his own man." Kirk took another sip, all but finishing it off.

"Would you like more?" she asked, noticing.

He held the cup out. "Please."

"How _is_ Mr. Spock?" the girl asked as she poured more steaming liquid into the pottery cup.

"Holding his own," Kirk answered, hoping it was true. As he accepted the cup, he fell into a silence, once again thinking about what his first officer had said.

"Chess," he murmured out loud.

"I beg your pardon?" Jemima asked.

"Oh. Sorry. Just talking out loud."

"You want to play chess?"

"No. No." He took a gulp, nearly burning his tongue. Savoring the heat as it flooded through him, he answered, "Spock said the word, in his delirium. I'm just wondering what he meant."

"Does it have to mean anything?"

He glanced at her and laughed. "With Spock? Yes."

She put the coffee kettle down and pursed her lips, bending her young mind to it. "Well," she said at last. "It's a game. I know. Mingo said he played it in England."

Why did _that_ not surprise him? "Oh."

"It's a board game played by two, with sixteen pieces each. The object is to checkmate the other's king," Jemima said, doing a passably good imitation of Spock.

He laughed. "Yes, it's all about strategy. What you do before you move a piece is far more important than the piece…itself…." His voice trailed off.

"Captain Kirk?"

He glanced at her. For a moment, he said nothing. Then a smile broke across his face like a new moon rising. "Would your mother mind if I gave you a kiss?"

Jemima Boone blushed like a new bride.

"Just a little one, on the forehead." He leaned forward and did what he said. "Thank you."

He left her reeling as he headed up the stairs to find Dr. McCoy.

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

His enthusiasm faded when he opened the door. Bones was attempting to hold Spock down, the muscle spasm that had struck the Vulcan was so violent. Kirk pitched in a hand. Even weakened almost beyond recovery, it was all the two of them could do to keep him on the bed. When the spasm had passed, Kirk dropped into the chair beside the bed again and used his weary eyes to ask McCoy the question.

"He's at the crisis point," the doctor said. "We'll know soon." Bones ran a hand over his face. He was soaked with sweat. "Now, what did you want?"

Kirk had almost forgotten. "Can I touch him again? To talk to him?" he asked.

"What if I say 'no', is it going to stop you?"

He pursed his lips and considered it. "No. I promise I won't tire him out. It's only two words, but he needs to know."

"Two words?" Bones' lifted eyebrow was ironic and challenging. "Not three?"

Kirk contemplated wiping the smirk off his face, but he knew it was there solely for his benefit. "Two."

"What are they?" the surgeon demanded.

Kirk lifted the Vulcan's hand, which was now unnaturally cold.

"Message received."


	22. Chapter 22

Chapter Twenty-two

Kirk paused to speak to Cincinnatus Jones as he left the older man's tavern. The tavernkeeper and Yadkin were sitting on the porch. The blond man gave him a wink and a nod and patted his rifle to indicate he was keeping watch. Daniel Boone's beloved gun had been returned to the frontiersman and rested in a corner of his sickroom, almost as a talisman against his death. Yadkin insisted on standing guard, even though the Shawnee threat was over.

Carolina Yadkin had just about as much love of the Shawnee as Kirk had of Klingons.

"Where Mingo?" the starship captain asked the older of the two.

Cincinnatus was puffing a pipe. He took a long drag and let the smoke out slowly. "Umbele wanted to return to her people. He took her. Said he'd be back by nightfall."

"She went back to slavery?" Kirk was stunned. "When she had a chance at freedom?"

A lazy smoky 'o' drifted by in the air. "Seems she has young'uns."

"Oh. I see." Young ones born to work for white masters for nearly another _two_ hundred years.

"What are _you_ up to?" the older man asked.

"Me?" Kirk shrugged. "I thought I'd take a walk. Maybe to the Boone's cabin and back. See if Spock left anything there."

"That's a fur piece," Cincinnatus told him, as if he didn't know that Kirk _knew._

"I'm feeling…claustrophobic."

Yadkin scowled. "Claws to…what?"

Kirk waved a hand. "Never mind. I just need some fresh air."

"How are the patients?" the tavernkeeper asked.

Kirk took a moment to tell them. Boone was mending, as was Rain of Stars. Cincinnatus frowned at that. The tavernkeeper was still chagrinned at having the acting war chief of the Shawnee nation in one of his beds.

Little did he know….

" _My_ friend is…holding his own," was all he said of Spock.

"That there doctor of yours is a miracle worker," the older man said, taking another puff. "If he saved Daniel, I'm sure he can save your friend."

"McCoy is all right," Yadkin affirmed.

"I don't…." Kirk fell silent for a moment. "Yes," he said at last. "I'm sure you're right."

"Always am," the tavernkeeper snapped. Then he grinned.

Kirk excused himself. As he walked through the frontier settlement, he permitted himself a moment's distraction and tasted all of its sights and smells. The town was waking. Breathing was the same as eating. The aroma of wood smoke and freshly baked bread, mixed with bacon, sausage and syrup, filled the air. Children were up and going about their early morning chores, feeding the animals and watering both fauna _and_ flora. He smiled at Jemima Boone as she approached with her little brother in tow. Their mother must have sent them to the store. Israel carried a sack of flour and the Boone's daughter, a basket filled with apples.

"Fresh baked pie tonight, Jim," she said as she passed by.

He swallowed over his hunger and waved her a goodbye.

One of the guardsmen saluted him as he walked through the gate. Word of his title must have spread. He returned it, knowing he was brother to any military man from any era. The pair warned him there were still a few Shawnee on the loose. He thanked them, but he wasn't worried. He had a flintlock pistol tucked safely in his belt along with a bag of powder and everything he needed – as well as McCoy's hand phaser secreted in the bag.

He was going to find one of the Initiators.

Kirk strode forward, his footsteps powered by indignation. He wasn't sure where he was going, and he didn't know exactly what he was going to do or how he might accomplish his goal – other than by sheer cussedness – but he was bound and determined to find one of those damned interfering time travelers and make them answer for what they had done.

Chess. _Chess._

It had all been nothing but a game.

"Very astute, Captain James T. Kirk," a light voice spoke from close behind him. "For a mind so immature as yours. But then, it was not you but the Vulcan who came to that conclusion first."

He whirled, pistol at the ready. It was the one McCoy called Willow.

"You have a lot to answer for," he growled.

"I answer to no one."

"You are not God!" Kirk all but shouted.

Her smile was infuriating. "How do you know I am not?"

"I've dealt with other self-satisfied, supposedly omniscient beings who lack the conscience of even a spoiled child before. You're nothing new."

"Oh, but there you are wrong." Her reed-thin face sobered. "Where the others live outside of time, we move _through_ it."

"I think the last few days have given me a fair idea of what you can and can't – "

"Such knowledge is dangerous, like fire placed in a child's hands." Willow's great gray eyes seized on his. "Unless you know the child is capable of adult restraint."

Kirk opened his mouth to protest. He was angry, very and _righteously_ angry. Why was it that most super-intelligent, superhuman species seemed to have no concept of the Prime Directive? Why did it seem that their bread and butter _was_ to interfere? And how, superior as they claimed to be, did they have no concept of the _individual?_ He hoped that one day, if his species managed to progress to that point – that the one would always, _somehow,_ outweigh the many. Shifting his feet, he anchored himself to his anger and prepared to fight.

Then, suddenly, he understood.

"It wasn't a game," he stated. "It was a test."

Willow did not smile, but her eyes lit with approval. "Yes."

"Why?"

"You know the answer, James T. Kirk: Psi-2000. Captain Christopher." Her voice lowered, even here, where no one could know – or go. "Sector 90.4. The reason is _you._ You, are Pandora."

"And the gods had to see if I was worthy of opening the box?"

"No. If you would close it."

Kirk's head and heart hammered like a blacksmith with a deadline days overdue. "Spock and Uhura?"

"Were deliberately caught in one of the time tubes by an agent of the Initiators. We have studied you." Willow smiled slightly – _frighteningly_. "We knew you could not resist."

"One of your agents?"

She nodded. "D'Ayron."

"The Romulan? Why is he here? Why the Klingon?"

"You brought the Vulcan," she replied, as if that answered it all.

"I see. You had to test us all. Romulans. Klingons. The Federation."

"What one knows, the other soon learns. It is only a matter of… _time_." Her voice broke into muted tinkles, indicating she had amused herself by her choice of words.

His honey-colored brows popped. "Did we pass?"

"You did, and your friends." Willow's voice darkened. "The Romulan we chose was most unusual. Though he was sorely pressed, he chose true honor. D'Ayron would close the box. S'Tahl and the others would not. Neither would the Klingon."

"You could have just asked _me_ that," Kirk groused. "So, this isn't real?" he went on. "When you're finished we will be back on the ship and all of this will have never happened?"

Willow's gray eyes did a long, languid blink. "It was real."

"My men, on the ship?"

"We apologize for that. The bio-electronic organism placed in your engineering was altered to stun and sicken, but not kill. Our operative, S'Tahl, discovered the setting and changed it back. We regret the loss of life."

"Sulu?"

"I intervened, Captain Kirk, to prevent death."

"What about the men I left fighting for their lives back in Boonesborough?" he snapped.

If her narrow shoulders had been capable of it, she would have shrugged. "A necessary evil." Then, as if she read his mind, Willow went on. "You think _I_ am evil, Captain, but think of the possibilities. The time war is not a fiction, but it was fought millennia ago, before my people learned control. Once it ended, we became guardians of time. As each civilization comes to the place where they discover how to move through time, we come."

"And do what? What if the ones who know do _not_ prove trustworthy?"

Willow's gray eyes shone on a future he did not care to see. "There are many barren worlds, Captain. There are some things better _not_ known."

It chilled him. This woman was a member of a galactic peace-keeping force, not unlike Starfleet, created specifically to insure that _time_ did not become a weapon. Even if he had to sacrifice Spock to that truth, was it too much to ask?

" _You_ arean Initiator, aren't you?" he asked somewhat awed.

"I am one who survived, and who now insures others survival."

Kirk was silent a moment. "I have one more question."

"Ask it."

"Why here? Why _now?_ Why 18th century Kentucky?"

"Our agents – the Romulan and the Klingon – thought the choice was theirs. It was not. This moment would have prevented your future selves from discovering time travel."

"How?"

Willow's smile was serene. "Did you not know, Captain Kirk? Daniel Boone is literally in your genes."

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

"So that was why Tume didn't kill Mrs. Boone? He knew if he did that you wouldn't be born, and he wanted the knowledge of time travel to be known in the Klingon Empire in _his_ time?"

"Apparently so, Bones," Kirk replied. "I was never much for genealogy. I don't look back, I look forward."

"So how did a _Klingon_ know?"

"I suppose it's there somewhere, in the data files. If someone cares to look."

They were standing, talking quietly, in a corner of Spock's room. Kirk had returned near sunset, fearing what he would find. When he left the tavern, he had known he could come back to an empty bed and an open grave. Instead, he found his highly proper and usually impeccable first officer sleeping normally and curled up on the cord bed like a tot.

"The crisis passed shortly after you left," Bones murmured, looking at the sleeping Vulcan. "Nearly broke my arm with that last cramp." The surgeon held it up. His skin was mottled and there were imprints of fingers in his flesh growing purple and blue.

"Bones…ouch!"

"I trust I did not injure you, Doctor McCoy," a weak voice said, startling them both.

Kirk looked. Spock had shifted slightly and was studying them.

"I'm sorry, Spock. We didn't mean to wake you."

"I have been conscious for some time. I was merely…conserving my energy."

"I…see." Kirk moved to the side of his friend's bed. The Vulcan had looked sacked out to him, but he wasn't going to press it. He suppressed a grin. "Welcome back, Mr. Spock."

That eyebrow winged, a sure sign that all was right with the world. "From where, Captain?"

"The edge of the grave, you green blooded hobgoblin," McCoy snarled as he whipped out his medical scanner and it began to whine.

"This time, I believe, Doctor McCoy, it was the red blooded half that almost killed me."

"He's got you there, Bones."

The surgeon harrumphed. "Blood pressure near non-existent. Heartbeat, a little fast. About 290. Almost no traces of the infection." McCoy beamed. "Not bad for beads and rattles."

"Applicable in this era, Doctor." Spock's face was deadpan, though he looked quite rakish with the growing beard. "Thank you."

Kirk spoke into Bones' stunned silence. "You were right. About the chess game."

"There was no other conclusion once all of the facts came together. I simply do not understand why it took me so long to make the connections."

"Maybe because you were under duress?" the surgeon snapped. "Starting with the moment when you fell about, oh, sixty feet from the shuttlecraft to the ground? Gracefully, I'm sure."

"I was not injured upon impact, Doctor. The wound was sustained in the plunge itself."

"What difference does that make?"

"You implied, by your words, Doctor, that the cause of my cognitive difficult arose from the fall."

"Oh, for Heaven's sake!"

"Gentlemen. Mr. Spock, while I am happy to see you are feeling well enough to be ornery," Spock's insulted look made him draw a breath, "there are still things to deal with. Such as the Romulan in the next bed, and getting out of Dodge."

"Willow didn't say she'd send us back?" McCoy asked.

Kirk had told him about their conversation. " 'When it is time,' is what she said, Bones. I'm not sure I want to rely on the Initiators' time table." He winced at the pun.

"D'Ayron is alive?" Spock asked, his voice a hoarse prayer of thanks.

The tension in his tone caused Kirk to turn toward his friend. He was not prepared for the open, ragged emotion he glimpsed in the Vulcan's face for a split second before Spock got it under control.

"He's alive, Spock." Kirk's hazel eyes struck him, phaserlike. "You care to tell me why _you_ care?"

"He…assisted me. Tor'magh, the Klingon, meant to kill me. D'Ayron took the bullet that was intended to end my life."

"A Romulan, saving a Vulcan?" Bones rolled his eyes. "What is this world coming to?"

Kirk could sense it. There was something else there. Something Spock was…ashamed of? "And why would this Romulan want to save your life?" When his friend said nothing, Kirk added quietly, "You said he was _family_."

 _Both_ ink slash brows peaked this time. "Indeed?" Spock was silent a moment. Then he made a request of McCoy, something that rarely happened. "Doctor, would you mind if I spoke to the captain alone?"

The word 'mind' was thrown in there on purpose, and it worked its charm. McCoy huffed and complained, but he left.

Kirk sat down. "Well, Spock. What is it?"

"Do you remember, Captain, last year when we spoke of Vulcan….biology?"

The last word was almost swallowed, but he heard it. He nodded. "Yes." It had been the time of the pon far; the Vulcan ritual of mating. It had almost killed them both.

"What has that to do with this?"

"I'm sure you have heard the crude jokes, Captain." Spock's voice was formal. "Referring to a Vulcan males' sexual appetites being satisfied only once every seven years."

"Never listened," he lied.

"It is not true. The pon far and the koon-ut-kal-if-fee are for the purpose of binding two households together and for producing progeny. Not for pleasure or to satisfy desire."

"Well, one would hope some…pleasure was involved." Kirk swallowed. He hoped he wasn't blushing. "Why are we discussing this, Mr. Spock?"

The admission was totally human. "Jim, I am not immune to such desire."

Abruptly, Kirk recalled what Bones had said about the Romulan's biology. About the Vulcan _and_ human factors in his blood. His mind did the mental gymnastics. He could understand _why_ , but he couldn't come up with _how._

"You aren't saying D'Ayron is – "

Spock's voice was gravel in a jar; all of the weariness and disease of the last few day's rattling it. "Is my son – centuries away, and many times removed."

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Spock stopped briefly in the doorway of the Romulan's room, clinging to the frame in an attempt to keep his feet. He stumbled over to the bed and leaned on the empty chair beside it. Lt. Uhura had left. Dr. McCoy was sleeping, and he could hear Jim in the next room speaking softly to Daniel Boone who had only just awakened. Spock could still see the captain's face. The Vulcan didn't know if the shock that had registered there was from the fact that _he_ had issue in the far distant future, or from the idea that he might have indulged himself in the…actions it took to create one.

Upon D'Ayron's revelation, he had to admit, he had asked himself the same thing.

As a child of two worlds, he knew he would never truly belong to either. He did not know where the emotions he battled on a daily – no, hourly – basis originated. With his human half? Perhaps. But many eons before his father's people had, as Dr. McCoy liked to remind him, given the human race 'a run for it's money' in that category. In denying emotion he was, in a sense, denying _both_ of his heritages. And yet, in order to survive – to exist – divided as he was, he knew he would never dare give in to them. It was something the surgeon would never understand. He did not think even Jim began to.

It was something the young man lying unconscious before him _must._

Spock dropped into the chair with a sigh. His muscles had only begun to heal and each step was agony. Fortunately, his concentration had improved, and so he was able to apply the rudimentary Vulcan disciplines of pain control taught to him as a child to the problem. Once they returned to the ship, he would be forced to indulge Dr. McCoy and place himself into a deep, healing trance in order to return to his duties.

For a few minutes the Vulcan remained completely still, eyes open, listening to the waking sounds of the settlement; allowing the dawning light to play over his lean form and warm his always chilled skin. Then he closed his eyes and steepled his fingers. A moment later he leaned forward and applied them to D'Ayron's still fevered flesh. Instantly, he felt how close the Romulan had come to losing his life.

For him.

 _D'Ayron,_ he called softly within the meld. _Hear me._

 _I am here. Why have you come?_

 _To thank you._

 _For what?_

 _For my life._

A ghostly image of the young man flickered into existence. This time he wore neither Starfleet blacks nor the regalia of the war chief of the Shawnee. The mental image he projected of himself was Romulan. It wore the uniform of a commander of the line.

 _I told you I would not let you die,_ D'Ayron said.

 _You did not tell me it might be at the cost of your own._

 _Just payment for my choices._ The Romulan's amber eyes were bright as the flames in the altar that pulsed back in Spock's quarters on the Enterprise. _Just payment for past sins._

 _The term is human._

 _So am I. So are you._

Spock's astral self nodded. _Yes. But also Vulcan._

 _There is that in me as well._

 _As I am a child of two worlds, you are a child of three. Do not feel you must choose one over the others. Be the best of all._

D'Ayron's mind-self moved closer. Irony laced his tone. _Is that what_ you _have done?_

Spock's mind smiled as he could not do in the flesh. _It is a parents' prerogative to want the best for their child, even when they are not able to accept it for themselves._

 _If I am not completely Romulan, I do not belong._

 _Then belong elsewhere. You might try Starfleet._ He hesitated. _Does it still exist?_

 _Oh, yes. The Romulan Empire will not for long, though, unless it changes._

 _Be the one to change it. Show the Romulans that there is infinite pleasure to be found in infinite combinations of diversity._

There was a long pause. Then D'Ayron answered. _I will try._

Spock felt the young man stir under his hands as consciousness returned. D'Ayron drew a deep breath. _One more thing,_ Spock said before breaking it.

D'Ayron licked his lips. "What is that?" he croaked.

The forbidden smile returned to the Vulcan as memories of his battles – professional _and_ personal – began to flow through the touch.

 _A gift._


	23. Chapter 23

Chapter Twenty-three

James T. Kirk took a sip of coffee and leaned back in the wooden chair he occupied, enjoying the music. It was celebration time in Boonesborough. Daniel Boone, the settlement's founder, had taken an unexpected journey to the brink of death and back – and survived. Once the town's inhabitants knew that, and knew he was on his feet again, they insisted on throwing a party. McCoy had explained to him that it was called a 'social'.

Kirk swallowed and glanced around. Well, everyone _was_ being very social. Of course, that might have to do with the fact that both the conversation _and_ liquor were flowing freely in the small, tight space. Kirk raised his cup and breathed in the aroma of his coffee. Bones had liberally dosed it with Kentucky bourbon and then left him the bottle. He was happy. Everyone was happy.

Well, _almost_ everyone.

The captain's hazel eyes drifted to the pair of tall, lean figures that occupied the shadows near the blazing hearth. When he spoke with Willow, the time traveler had informed him that they would not be returned to the future until D'Ayron and Spock were well enough to withstand the forces of the time tube. Kirk hadn't protested. He didn't want to harm either man. Inaction, however, chafed at him, and he didn't much care for being away from his ship. Still he knew, logically, that it made no difference. Willow was an Initiator. If the reed thin alien wanted to transport them back to the second before all of this began, she could.

He was actually curious where – and _when_ she would take them.

They had been in Boonesborough nearly a week. This was the first day all three injured men were on their feet. Daniel Boone had, surprisingly, beaten both Spock _and_ D'Ayron out of bed by a day. Kirk took another sip of coffee and smiled as he watched the lanky frontiersman catch his wife and spin her around to kiss her with some passion. Boone's movements were careful, measured, but it was clear that – to him – the near fatal injury had been little more than an inconvenience.

Nearby Leonard McCoy was charming the stockings off all of the ladies in attendance, especially the younger of the two Boone women. The doctor from Georgia was in his element. Bones cleaned up quite nicely and, in his black suit with its diamond stickpin and silver buckled shoes, cut quite a figure on the dance floor. Kirk knew McCoy could dance, of course, but he had never seen him do the Virginia Reel. As he watched, the surgeon caught Jemima Boone's hand and waltzed her out from under her parents' noses. The elder Boones laughed and then egged them on, fully aware that their child couldn't _be_ in safer hands. As Becky and Daniel clapped, and their small son kept time on a makeshift drum made of a wooden keg, Cincinnatus Jones played the fiddle. The computer would have classed the music as Celtic or Celtic Bluegrass. Normally, it was not one of his favorite styles, but then he had never experienced it in its natural environment. The energy in the room was kinetic. There was music, conversation, dancing, and mountains of amazingly good food. All was right in the world.

Or was it?

His eyes returned to the pair cloaked in shadows. Kirk couldn't help it. Spock's revelation still stunned him. Not that he thought Spock wasn't interested in women. After all, he had seen what had happened with Leila Kolami on Omicron Ceti III with his own eyes. And though Spock had been under the influence of the spores at the time that he returned the woman's love, there had definitely been something there in the first place. Still, in all the time he had known the Vulcan, there had never been anything _close_ to a relationship in Spock's life. Kirk thought back to the conversation he had been having with Bones the day all of this time insanity started. McCoy was right. Women found Spock _fascinating._ That fact was reflected in the way the females of the settlement were regarding his first officer now. The Vulcan's pantherlike grace, his superb physical condition, and the mystique of being _alien_ created a tidy package guaranteed to draw the female of the species like a magnet. But Spock always seemed so uninterested, so unmoved.

D'Ayron's Romulan ancestress must have been one _hell_ of a woman.

Kirk shifted again in his chair. He had demurred dancing for the moment. His injured leg was aching and, anyway, it was more interesting to watch everyone else. He surveyed the dance floor again, mentally ticking off a list of the attendees. There were a few missing. Mingo, for one. The Cherokee warrior had returned the day before, after delivering Umbele to the home Tor'magh's slavers had kidnapped her from. The black woman's part in all of this still puzzled him. Uhura had informed him that the Klingon's interest in her had gone beyond that of making a profit, and that Umbele seemed to play some role in Tor'magh's thwarted plan of conquest.

Oh well. That was one he would have to let the library computer sort out later – if he even remembered it was a problem.

Kirk scowled. Where _was_ Uhura, now that he thought of it? He had seen her earlier that morning. She had been assisting Mrs. Boone and Mingo with preparations for the evening event. Then, she – well, come to think of it – both she _and_ Mingo had disappeared. For a second worry overcame the starship captain's curiosity, but then he dismissed it. The lieutenant was more than capable of looking out for herself. And if she was with the Cherokee warrior, well, maybe she didn't _want_ to be found.

A shadow eclipsed him, cutting off the fire's light. Kirk looked up to find a rather flushed Dr. Leonard Mc Coy beaming at him. Jemima Boone stood at the surgeon's side. "I never thought of you as a killjoy, Jim. That's Spock's role. How come you aren't dancing?" he asked.

Kirk smiled over his mug. "My card's full."

Suddenly McCoy was all business. "Is your leg bothering you. I can go get – "

He waved him off. "I'm fine. And how are you tonight, Miss Boone?"

She fanned herself. "Leonard and I are having a fine time!"

" _Leonard?"_ Kirk winked.

"That's my name," the doctor drawled. "Been a while since I've heard it. Nothing like an evening social to take the military out of the man."

Kirk's eyes roved to the shadows again. "For some of us," he murmured.

Bones' gaze followed his captain's. The surgeon hesitated and then turned to Jemima. "My dear, I'm afraid you've worn this _old_ country doctor out. Could you go get me a glass of punch while I sit here with my friend for a minute – so I have the energy to go on."

Jemima had been about to frown. At McCoy's final words, she beamed. "Back in a minute," she curtseyed, and then was gone.

"Ah, youth!" the surgeon declared, staring after her. Then he turned back. "So what's going on with Spock and the other pointy-eared member of the party?"

Both Vulcanoids had taken time to shave and put on fresh clothes, and it was unsettling how much their unacknowledged kinship showed in spite of the differences. Spock was dressed in rich blues and D'Ayron, in a suit as umber as his hair. The Romulan was slightly heavier of build, and perhaps an inch shorter. His hair was thicker, longer, and it rebelled against constraint. And then there were those _amber_ eyes. Their presence had to have made it hard for him to climb the military ladder on Romulus, where conformity was rigidly enforced. As did his mixed blood – even if the source of _contamination_ was several centuries removed. And yet Spock had said D'Ayron was a commander. He couldn't have been more than 26 years old.

"Earth to Jim Kirk," McCoy said, waving a hand before his eyes.

Kirk shrugged. "Spock said they're family."

Bones grizzled left eyebrow did a fair imitation of Spock's. "Really?"

He hid his amusement in the pottery mug. " _All_ Romulans and Vulcans are. You know that doctor."

"Oh. I thought you meant…." The surgeon halted. His brows knit together like needles in the hands of an old lady, and then peaked again even higher. "Family? How can they be family? Jim, what is it you are _not_ saying?" When Kirk made no reply, his friend continued to speculate; his ice-blue eyes growing ever wider. "I guess we _are_ dealing with time. Maybe in the future. But no…. Or maybe _yes!_ What other explanation can there be of that blood type they share – the one with human _and_ Vulcan factors – but that they're…. "

"Bones, _don't_ go there," he warned.

The surgeon's eyes went to the pair and then swung back to him. "Spock? With a woman? With a _Romulan_ woman?" Bones leaned back in his chair just as Jemima arrived with a cup. "Will wonders _never_ cease," he muttered as he took it. Then he remembered his manners. "Thank you, my dear."

"Ma says it's time for me to _retire_ ," the girl pouted. "I gotta…I have to take my little brother up to bed. Will you be here in the morning, Leonard?"

Bones' gaze shot to him. Kirk shrugged.

"Most likely." McCoy rose to his feet. He took her hand and bowed over it, and then brushed the top gently with his lips. "Thank you for a most delightful evening, Miss Boone."

She almost swooned. Catching herself, Jemima turned it into a courtesy. "Likewise," she grinned. And was gone.

"Charming child," McCoy said as he retook his seat. "She's a real credit to her – " Bones' voice faltered and then fell away to nothing. Both grizzled eyebrows peaked.

Kirk tensed. He'd seen that look before. "What? What is it?"

McCoy nodded in the direction of the hearth. "Spock and D'Ayron. They're gone! We'd better – "

Kirk reached out and caught McCoy's hand. "Leave them be. That's an order, Bones." He pulled the other man down to his seat and then shoved the bourbon bottle across the table. "Let's make that punch the _adult_ variety."

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Spock stood with his hands clasped behind his back. He and D'Ayron had not had a chance to speak privately since the incident with Tor'magh and Unemake. The young Romulan had been the last to recover and, as such, had been confined to his bed by Dr. McCoy until this evening when he had been granted a reprieve and allowed to attend the humans' festivities. D'Ayron was attired now, much as he, in colonial garb. The dark breeches and open-necked linen shirt, along with a pair of knee-high boots, gave him the rakish air of a pirate. His hair was still long – long enough to cover the points of his ears – but it had been trimmed to something more acceptable. The dark umber locks were gathered into a tail and worn in the traditional manner indicated by the portraits of the time. A black ribbon kept them under control.

The Romulan walked away from him to lean on the tavern's porch rail and stare off into the common that served as Boonesborough's rudimentary town square. His shoulders rose and fell with a sigh before he turned back. Resting one hip on the rail, D'Ayron remarked with regret. "I suppose we shall have to say goodbye soon."

"It is only logical."

"You won't reconsider…coming with me?"

"Willow has assured us the future will be as it was. My place is on the ship, at my captain's side."

D'Ayron nodded. "I wonder where my place is," he replied.

Spock moved closer to him. "It is wherever you choose to make it."

The young Romulan stared at him. He opened his mouth, but then closed it.

"Ask your questions," the Vulcan said.

A slight smile curled his upper lip. "Your…gift. I find it a… _mixed_ blessing."

"Explain."

D'Ayron sucked in air, as if he was drowning. "So much, so quickly. It is hard to process."

He had held nothing back. "Continue."

"I never…knew my father. He died for the Empire when I was very young. My maternal uncle assumed his role. We were…close." His amber eyes flicked to Spock's face. "Forgive me if I intrude. Did your father _ever_ approve of you?"

"My father wished for me to be wholly Vulcan, as your uncle wished for you to be completely Romulan." The link had not gone only _one_ way. "The otherworld factors in your blood were generations removed. Mine were imminent."

"But it was Sarek's choice to marry a human, and to have a child with her. What did he expect?"

Spock's voice was ragged. His words, honest. "I do not know."

"But it's why you chose Starfleet? You couldn't be either, so you decided to be something else?"

"Yes. Myself."

D'Ayron scowled. "And you have never regretted your choice? Turning your back on the Academy? On being _completely_ Vulcan? In a way, _on_ Vulcan?"

Spock started to protest, but then he realized the Romulan was right. He _had_ rejected his father's world as surely as that of his human mother. "Questioned, yes. Regretted? No." It was a revelation to him as well. "No, I have not." He let his words hang in the air for a moment, and then asked quietly, "Can you say the same?"

"You have _ruined_ me for that by showing me there is another way…."

Spock was taken aback. "I am sorry. I regret if you did not desire the meld – "

D'Ayron raised a hand. "No. I desired it. I thank you for it. What I mean is, dissatisfaction with being a Romulan, well, it seems…." He grinned. "It seems it is in my _blood._ It is why I accepted the Initiators request that I join them."

"How is that?"

"I thought, by creating a new, a _different_ Federation that I would be able to fit in."

Spock held his descendant's gaze. "And now?"

"Now? Now I think that is the only place I _will_ fit in."

"It will not be easy, being the first Romulan to attend the academy. The humans will not accept you at first."

"I know. It was not easy for you either, being the first Vulcan."

"My path was easier. Vulcan was a member planet."

D'Ayron grinned. "Maybe one day Romulus will be as well."

Spock nodded. The shadow of a smiled touched his thin lips. " _That_ would be a most logical progression."

"Mr. Spock!"

Both men turned to find Nyota Uhura hastening toward her. She was accompanied by the Cherokee warrior, Mingo, and carried in her hands a wooden case. It took Spock a moment to recognize it. So much had happened between now and the last time he had seen it. When he realized what it was he was overcome by several emotions, which he quickly suppressed. One was a certain nostalgia for the life he had lived before Starfleet; the other, an unexpected longing, as if what the lieutenant held was a long lost friend suddenly returned from the dead.

And the last?

Well, the feeling of gratitude he did not quash. "Thank you, Lieutenant," he said quietly as she held the case out to him.

Uhura's smile brightened the night. "Well, we came to Earth to make music. I figured tonight might be our last chance."

"What's in it?" D'Ayron asked with interest.

The Bantu woman had taken his sudden friendship with the Romulan in stride. "You'll see," she grinned. "Why don't you open it, Mr. Spock?"

"Wait. I know." D'Ayron's bronzed hand reached out to reverently touch the incised wood. "The Vulcan lyrette." His amber eyes flicked to Spock. "I saw it in the meld."

"Uhura tells me it is a kind of harp," Mingo said as he stepped onto the porch. "And that you play it well."

Spock's near black eyes sparkled. "Not so well as the lieutenant sings."

Uhura blushed. "We make our best music together."

"Will you share it with us tonight?" the Cherokee warrior asked.

"Oh, I don't know." Uhura listened for a moment to the strains of fiddle music floating on the breeze. "It's not your typical frontier music."

"Why does that not surprise me?" Mingo laughed. "None of you are 'typical'." He turned to Uhura then and flashed a smile. "And remember, Nyota, you promised me a dance."

The Bantu woman beamed. "As many as you want, mister," she sighed. Then, remembering herself, she turned to her commanding officer. "Sir, what do you think?"

"Do play it. Please," D'Ayron insisted.

Spock hesitated only a moment. Then he nodded.

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Mingo escorted the small party in and hushed the ebullient crowd. It was getting late and a change of pace was needed, he told them. James T. Kirk watched as Spock entered, carrying the carved wooden case he had seen him pack the day the shuttlecraft _Columbus_ had taken off. It seemed a lifetime before and who knew, with the Initiators, maybe it _had_ been. With the young Romulan lingering close by, Spock sat and reverently placed his long fingers on the case. For a moment it seemed he was lost in prayer – though knowing the Vulcan, it was more a type of meditation. Then he opened the case and drew out the exotic looking lyrette. Though it resembled no Earth instrument, it did not violate the Prime Directive. Spock's harp was older than the civilization Daniel Boone was destined to foster. The Vulcan brushed his fingers over the strings, checking to see if they were in tune. He adjusted a few and then nodded to Uhura.

Their repertoire was extensive. Kirk had heard them once or twice, when the music was piped over the ship's intercom, but he had never had the time to simply sit back and appreciate this side of either officer. They limited their choices to pre-nineteenth century Earth music, which left them with only such minor _majors_ as Handel, Mozart, and Bach. But they also performed several of what he believed were called _folk_ tunes. Mischievous, Uhura chose one titled 'Black in the Color of My True Loves Hair'. Kirk wasn't sure which raven-black haired man it was meant for – Spock or Mingo – but everyone except his first officer seemed to get the joke.

The last peace they performed was his favorite. There was no known composer, but it was old and French. As Uhura sang, Spock caught his eye and Kirk thought he could detect just the hint of a smile.

oooooooooooooooooooooooooo

 _You who interpret time by symbols rare,_

 _By hushed lone seas and forests shadow-bound,_

 _By all the sighings of the soul of sound_

 _And omens of the soft meandering air_

 _To unfrequented coasts of thought you fare,_

 _And in a land of sadness you have found_

 _Nature, a nymph who never would be gowned,_

 _And beauty, who is also proudly bare._

 _Your pain has sung itself into my breast,_

 _And hearing you, I know that tears are best,_

 _But tenderness will still them when they throng._

 _So, o'er a realm whose frontiers never end,_

 _To lure the sad to solace, let me send_

 _Your shadow on a film of ravished song._

oooooooooooooooooooooooooo

It was time to go home.

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Epilogue

 _Captain's Personal Log 32.72.2_

 _Our mission to deliver supplies and the Federation science survey team went off without a hitch. We returned to Earth orbit approximately 12 hours ago and rendezvoused with the shuttlecraft Columbus. Lieutenant Uhura and Mr. Spock have returned to duty and I must say it looks like the rest agreed with them. Uhura is still humming and Spock is as relaxed as I have ever seen him. Both insisted on returning to the bridge on the next watch and I didn't hesitate in taking them up on the offer. I have missed both as, not only are they supremely efficient officers, but I am fortunate enough to count them as friends. For the moment, the ship is at ease as we await our next assignment._

"Kirk out." The captain of the Enterprise continued to think for a moment. It seemed there was something else he needed to say, but for the life of him he couldn't think what it was. He'd been feeling that way a lot lately. Ever since they had dropped Spock and Uhura off for the conference. Turning in his chair, he glanced at the back of Uhura's head. She was deep into a refresher course on the communications she had missed while away. Then his eyes swung to Spock. His first officer was sitting in his chair with his hands dangling between his knees, staring.

Just _staring._

"Spock?"

The Vulcan started. "Sir?"

"Something wrong?"

"No, sir." Spock pursed his thin lips. "Well, yes, sir."

"What is it?"

Spock's near black eyes fastened on his hazel orbs. "That is the problem, sir, I do not know what it is. I find it quite the lack of certainty…quite unnerving."

Kirk waved it off. "Happens all the time. "I've been feeling that way myself."

"Not to Vulcans. Sir."

"Yes, well. You are part _human_ , if you recall, Mr. Spock."

One black eyebrow stood at attention. "How could I forget when I have so many diligent friends about to remind me?" he replied as he swiveled in his chair and went back to work.

Back less than half a day and he'd insulted him already. "Sorry, Mr. Spock," he muttered, mostly to himself.

Bored with inaction, Kirk fled his chair and went to stand beside Uhura. She wasn't distracted – or ticked with him. Her hands were flying. It took Kirk a moment to realize it was not official business, but something else. On the screen before her a series of images shot past at light-speed; mostly black faces, but a few white, and one that even appeared slightly oriental.

"What's this?" he asked.

"Sorry, sir. I wanted to take a look at the tape my _Bibi_ gave me. There was nothing official pending – "

"It's fine. What is this? Family?"

" _Bibi_ is Swahili for grandmother. On my mother's side. She's 105."

"Good for her," Kirk smiled.

"Yes, sir. She's the archivist of the family. Her daughter has been helping her to gather all the photographic records from the nineteenth century on. And a few portraits." She hesitated. "It seems I have a few important ancestors."

For some reason over the last few days Kirk's mind had turned to his own lineage. He had asked the computer to run it, and had been surprised to find that he was related to Daniel Boone. Well, _surprised_ was not the right word. He had always known there were trailblazers in his blood. _Delighted,_ perhaps.

"Like who?"

"Like the first African American president of the United States."

Kirk's eyes rolled back in his head. History had been a favorite of his – _military_ history. His interest in the social sciences didn't go back quite _that_ far. "Obidiah, was it?"

She laughed. "Obama. Barak Hussein Obama. His administration was responsible for several peace initiatives that eventually led to the creation of a worldwide federation." She grinned. "And we know where that went with planets. We share a common ancestress."

"Do you know her name?"

"Oh, yes." Uhura toggled a switch and a 19th century painting appeared. It was of an elderly black woman, somewhere between 80 and 90 years old. Intelligence shown out of her eyes, and a fierce but quiet determination.

"It was painted by a visiting artist and ended up in the gallery in Washington D.C. for a time, before being moved to the Museum of Kenyan Antiquities in the early 22nd century."

He leaned in closer. For some crazy reason, the woman looked vaguely familiar. "What was her name?"

"Umbele," Uhura answered, her voice sounding far away.

"It means 'the future'."

\- The End -


End file.
